She Who Heals
by E for Emma
Summary: An original character story with a flair! It's set in Atlanta and follows the story of Phoebe and Angelina, two girls who come into their powers while dealing with the drama of high school. WARNING: CHAPTERS 20 AND 21 ARE RATED M!
1. Birth

She Who Heals

Yes, yes, this is another Heroes original character fic. This one, though, takes place in Atlanta, which should add a neat little flair to the story as a whole. Why? It's my hometown and it's not represented in TV nearly as much as it should be. Well, y'all know the deal: only original characters belong to me, etc. (Maybe a Heroes character or two might show up. Who knows?) Oh, and all the places/people/shows/etc. mentioned here are actual things in Atlanta or pop culture as a whole, so I don't own any of those, either. Whenever someone speaks in another language, because I have no grasp of any language other than English and would have to use Babel Fish, which doesn't give good results, I'll just put it in_ this_.

01: Birth

My alarm clock's green luminescent numbers clicked over to 6:30 AM and the radio switched on to my favorite station, 92.9 Dave FM, in the middle of a Depeche Mode song. I reluctantly threw off my comforter, blue with a cloud pattern, and rolled over so I could get out of my bed and stagger over to my closet. Right as I reached over to turn on my lights, my door opened and my big sister Charlotte poked her head inside. I squinted at the sudden change of light and correctly identified Char's flame-red shock of hair.

"Char?" I asked groggily.

"G'nurgig sahshayne," Charlotte slurred. What the hell did she just say?

"Pardon?" I asked, frowning slightly. Charlotte shrugged and cleared her throat.

"Good morning, sunshine," she said, her speech still sounding odd.

"Char, what's up with how you're talkin'?" I asked. Instead of verbally answering me, Charlotte stuck her tongue out at me, revealing a brand-new silver barbell right smack-dab in the middle of her tongue, surrounded by a red band of irritation.

"Ta-da!" she slurred at me.

"Oh God!" I howled, covering my eyes. Charlotte laughed heartily.

"That look on your face!" Charlotte said through her laughter. "So priceless. Yeah, Big Red pierced it last night. You like? I couldn't feel any pain, probably because of that vodka I had beforehand…" She stumbled out of my doorway, probably headed back to her room. Why was she awake at 6:30? She usually didn't emerge from bed until Jerry Springer was on.

Man, I hate tongue piercings.

Charlotte is the queen of piercings, however. Do you remember that scene in Pulp Fiction where Vincent is waiting to buy some heroin and talks to the woman who has, like, 17 piercings? I think Char has 18. She has three sets in her earlobes, one in each cartilage, one in her right eyebrow, one in her nose, and one in her navel. Now, with the tongue, she has…12. Okay, so maybe I over-exaggerated a little. Char has very high pain tolerance. She also has five intricate, multi-colored tattoos that took many hours and many dollars to complete.

I pulled a T-shirt advertising my old elementary school over my head and shook out my short brown hair before shimmying into one of my favorite pairs of soft blue jeans. As I walked over to my vanity mirror, I slipped into my favorite sneakers and changed the date on my perpetual calendar. I'm so glad it's Friday. I carefully applied a layer of foundation, powder, and very black mascara—my classic school look—and put on the ring I got for my 16th birthday from my dad.

My mom and dad aren't married anymore and haven't been since I was about 12. Now, I just live with my mom and Char in a pretty nice house near my school, Druid Hills. Dad's not too far away, though: he's in Lawrenceville. But that's neither here nor there.

I sat down to read the AJC (that's the Atlanta Journal-Constitution) for a while before I glanced at the clock and realized I needed to pick Angelina up for school. So, I snatched up all my stuff like a crazy woman and hightailed it to my little Honda Civic, bidding a good day to my mom and Char while I ran. Thankfully, Angelina lives nearby and I have a spot in the student parking lot.

"_Buon giorno_, Phoebe," Angelina said as she eased herself into my well-worn passenger seat. She laughed and threw her long brown hair back from the collar of her hooded jacket.

"Hey to you too, Angie," I replied. "What's with the Italian?"

"I don't know!" Angelina said. "Lately, I've just been speaking different languages. Yesterday, I went off on Bobby for being in my room, but when I was done, he had a confused look on his face. Turned out that I was yelling at him in French the entire time!"

"You don't speak French," I pointed out.

"I know! It's so weird. I wish that I still had Spanish, though. Now, I could probably get a 100!" Angie can make anything funny.

"Wish I spoke French," I muttered as I pulled to a stop in the right turn lane for Haygood Drive.

"Yeah, then you could talk to _Dylan_," Angie said in sing-song as I felt my cheeks grow hot. Dylan is, quite possibly, the most charming guy in the senior class. He's involved in nearly everything, from student government to the soccer team, and is liked by pretty much everyone in the class of 2007, but I _like_-like him, if you know what I mean.

"Shut up," I commanded, flicking my turn signal on.

"_You shut up_," Angie replied in French.

"Dammit! Stop with the French!" I demanded as I made the turn onto Haygood, quickly turning into the little student parking lot, which is far too small to accommodate all the students who want to park. I know many people who are relegated to parking on the nearby residential streets and walking over. I was just lucky enough to get a spot. I pulled into my spot—bordered by a minivan on one side and a Jeep on the other—and gathered my things up again.

"Look, there's Dylan now!" Angie chirped, pointing to Dylan as he got out of his cherry red 350Z. "I'll go tell him that you _like_ him."

"I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound good!" I cried, but Angie opened the door and started running over to Dylan's car. She didn't exit the car quite right, though, and her right foot hooked onto the seat belt. She tripped, falling and landing on her hands with a terrible smack noise.

"Owwww! Owowowowowow! Oh, I think I broke my ankle!" Angie wailed, holding her right ankle forlornly, which spattered blood from her scratched-up hands onto her socks.

"Angie! Are you okay? Do you want me to call 911?" I asked, dashing over to Angie's side and touching her shoulder. Oddly, when I touched her shoulder, I felt a slight tingle in my hand. Angie's grip on her ankle loosened and she looked confused.

"Yeah, I am okay. It doesn't even hurt anymore," she told me.

"Really?" I asked, frowning in confusion.

"Really." Angie let go of her ankle and looked at her hands, which were now as pristine as they were before she tripped. "What the…?" She trailed off and glanced back up at me, as if I would know why this was happening.

"I don't know," I said, shrugging. "Um, the bell's going to ring soon, so let's go," I added sheepishly, slinging my backpack over my shoulders. Angie paused for a moment before nodding and together, we set off towards the steep flight of stairs connecting the student parking lot to the actual campus. On the way, we passed by Dylan. I glanced over at—okay, _stared at_—him before ascending the stairs. But what's not to love? He has natural blond hair, hypnotizing blue/green (it changes depending on the angle of the light) eyes, and a strong athletic build (as opposed to my 'eating whatever, whenever and not doing anything to counter it' build, which isn't as great).

"Feebs, back to Earth now," Angie told me, tugging at my sleeve, which pulled my eyes away from gawking at Dylan. "You can stare at him all you want in AP English."

"You can tell?" I stage-whispered.

"It's pretty stealthy, but I can tell," Angie replied. "I don't know if he can, though," she added, staring at her palms.

* * *

Angie's right about my stealthy staring. Between listening intently to Dr. RK because she's quite a witty doctor and taking notes or doing whatever's required that day, I do tend to eye Dylan. He sits at another table with his cool, popular friends, while I sit at the funny nerds table with Angie and two guys, Harry and Shawn. However, today's a little different from most days. Instead of my stealthy staring, I spend any free moments thinking about the weird things that Angie and I have been doing lately. 

Angie and I both took Spanish class back in freshman year, and though we excelled at vocabulary, we fell short on grammar skills and our teacher said that our accents were unconvincing at best. Neither of us has ever taken Lesson 1 of French in our lives, though she could have picked up the phrase Buon giorno through the media. I decided to send her a stealthy note to test the waters.

"Angie," I began. "Answer me this riddle one. How do you say 'I like Canadian boys with blond hair' in French?" I placed the paper atop her books and watched as she glanced at it, chewed her lower lip, and hastily scribbled an answer.

"_ I like Canadian boys with blond hair_. Do you want me to give it to Dylan for verification of spelling and grammar and whatnot?" read the reply.

"HELL NO!!!" I scrawled onto the paper.

"You have to tell him eventually."

"Tell me something I don't already know."

"Why haven't you told him?"

"Hello! He's popular and I'm not."

"Big deal. Everyone likes Dylan, even that one emo kid who hates everything. He's universally appealing."

"That means that some other girl has her eyes on him."

"DON'T THINK SO NEGATIVELY!!"

"What am I supposed to do, anyway? I've never done this before."

"I don't know…"

"Big help."

"Maybe you could just ask him out for coffee sometime as a friend. You know? It doesn't have to go anywhere unless you both want it to."

"Maybe…"

"Look up. RK's coming to pick up homework."

My eyes darted upward and I shakily handed my homework over to Dr. RK, who smiled as she received it.

"Good morning, Phoebe," she said cheerfully.

"Morning, Dr. RK," I replied, smiling. Dr. RK went to check Harry and Shawn's homework and I whirled around to face Angie.

"You know who we haven't seen in a while?" I asked.

"Who?" Angie asked, eyes wide.

"Sharmila!" I exclaimed. Sharmila is a mutual friend of ours who is a freshman at nearby Georgia State University. We visited her during her fall break, but that was back in October and it's now November. "We should go visit her this weekend."

"Maybe she'll know something about…" Angie looked around, lowered her voice, and said "_this_" in Japanese. I know that word from listening to Japanese music and looking up translations of the lyrics, so I nodded.

"Let's go see her tomorrow," I declared. "I'll call you."

* * *

"CHAR! I'm home!" I screamed as I opened the front door, toddling inside with my heavy backpack and unceremoniously depositing it in one of the kitchen chairs. As I made my way to the kitchen for a snack, Char came up from her room in the fully furnished basement. She was still dressed in her pajamas and looked sullen. "What's wrong?" I asked her.

"Ny guhk ging iz guzhking," she told me. I wonder if Angie could make heads or tails of what she just said because it surely doesn't sound like English.

"Say that again?" I asked.

"Ny…" Char frowned, held up her index finger, and found a stack of Post-It notes and a pen by the phone. She wrote something down on one of the notes and handed it to me.

"My tongue ring is pus-ing."

"GROSS!" I cried, throwing the note at her. "Did Big Red tell you what you should do if this happens?" Char thought about it and shrugged, shaking her head no. "Did you look stuff up on the Internet about it?" Char thought about it and shook her head yes. "What did it say?"

"Ay gish ow uh uck," she said.

"Pardon?"

Looking thoroughly miffed, Char got another Post-It.

"I'm shit out of luck."

I looked at the note and at my hands, remembering how Angie's hurt ankle and hands suddenly stopped hurting when I touched her, before looking back at Char. She looked like she was suffering and I don't like to see her suffer. Though I personally disagree with the concept of tongue rings, I'm going to put aside my personal opinions and just help someone in need. Crumpling the note and throwing it aside—I'll put it in the trash can later—I went over and touched Char on the shoulder. She frowned in confusion and I felt that tingle in my hand again. A moment later, she swallowed loudly and her face brightened.

"I don't taste any pus anymore!" she sang. "Yay!" She started doing an odd victory dance that I joined in on. "What did you do? You made the pus go away! How did you do that?" She grabbed my hands and held them up to her eyes. "Nothing special about them on the outside," she noted. "Oh my God! Feebs! You're a miracle worker! You're kinda like Jesus! I need to call the Pope and tell him about this!" Singing the word 'Hallelujah' over and over, Char danced her way back down to her room.

"The Pope…?" I asked. Sure, Char is crazy and she's probably not going to really call the Pope (if you can call him at all), but I'm starting to wonder. Twice today, I've touched people and their wounds have healed. It seems strange, too strange to explain.

I bet Sharmila knows what's going on here! I'll call her to let her know we're coming tomorrow, then there's some AP English homework to do, and then it's off to bed (maybe I can stay up late enough for Conan, but I doubt it).


	2. Theory

02: Theory

Note: I can't remember if Mohinder's dad was ever described as a doctor or not, so I'll just call him a doctor—he probably was, anyway. I've also taken some liberties with the contents of the book—namely, I've written some.

"The next station is Georgia State, Georgia State. Exit here for Georgia State University. The next station is Georgia State."

Angie was having a little nap while I stared out of the window of the MARTA train, watching Atlanta blaze by, until the train stopped at the Georgia State station.

"Angie, wake up," I said, shaking Angie as the chimes sounded and the doors swooped open. She awoke quickly, yawning, gathering her purse, and staggering to the open doors. I scurried through after her, right before the doors closed, and we walked towards the station exit while the train sped off behind us.

"Did I miss anything?" Angie asked groggily.

"You missed a guy selling DVDs for $5," I reported. "I believe they were bootlegged. I mean, they were first-run movies."

"Oh, darn," Angie said sarcastically, stretching her arms out as we left the station. A somewhat long walk down Courtland Street to the University Lofts awaited us, but that's no biggie. It's just another opportunity for some exercise. Plus, it's a nice, fairly warm fall day. Heck, we're not even wearing any jackets. Oh, Atlanta weather. If you don't like how it is today, just wait a few days—it'll change.

After passing many of the buildings of Georgia State, we finally arrived at the silver metal building with a cool stair step design that was the University Lofts. To gain access to the building, we had to loop around to the front and call Sharmila so she could come down from her seventh-story room and buzz us in. I peered inside and watched as Sharmila came running out from one of the elevators and threw open the door.

"Angelina! Phoebe! Oh, it's soooo good to see you again!" Sharmila exclaimed, engulfing us in a group hug. Her brown eyes sparkled with glee and she swept her black hair away from her face so we could better see her grin. "You two have been strangers around here. Haven't seen you two since you helped me move in back in August."

"I know, I know. We've been busy. But how are you doing?" I asked.

"Ugh, I am so stressed out right now. I have to learn the Latin names for all these areas of the brain for a test on Monday and the darn names just aren't sticking," Sharmila explained as we signed in on the visitors log and followed her to the bank of elevators facing the cheerful little courtyard.

"Angie might be able to help with that," I blurted out. In response, Angie elbowed me in the ribs. "Ow!"

"Why's that?" Sharmila asked, raising an eyebrow while the elevator doors opened with a chime.

"Well…" I entered the elevator and watched Sharmila and Angie get inside. Then, I hurriedly pressed the Close Doors button so nobody else could eavesdrop on us. "Sharmila, some weird things have been happening to the both of us lately."

"Weird things? What do you mean?" Sharmila queried, pushing the 7 button.

"I'm going to cut to the chase. I suddenly have the ability to heal people and Angie here can understand, write, and speak any language perfectly," I explained.

"That's why she thinks I could help you memorize your Latin terms," Angie explained sheepishly.

"Wait, are you two serious?" Sharmila asked, glaring at us, but she wasn't glaring with hatred in her eyes. Angie and I nodded. "Oh my God…Ashley's been telling me about things like this! She even checked out a book about it. I'll ask her if she still has it when we get up to the room." Right as she said that, the doors opened to the 7th floor. Sharmila hustled down the hallway to room 707 while Angie and I, still tired from our long walk, struggled to keep up. Finally, we reached room 707 and stood doubled over, panting for air, while Sharmila found her key and opened the door.

"Who's that?" we heard Ashley ask from inside while we stumbled in and promptly seated ourselves on their two green couches in the living area.

"It's Angelina and Phoebe," Sharmila reported.

"Cool," Ashley replied, stepping out of her room. She was still dressed in pajamas with her blonde hair tied into a tight braid, but of course I don't mind. "Hey, y'all!" she said cheerfully. "I haven't seen y'all in a while."

"Yeah, we've both been really busy," Angie said apologetically.

"So what brings you two down here today?" Sharmila asked, moving towards the refrigerator. "Do you two want anything to eat or drink? We have some of those bottled vanilla Frappuccinos."

"They're mere impostors to the throne of _real_ Frappuccinos, though," Ashley said cautiously. "No ice, no slushy texture, no whipped cream…"

"I'll take one," I said, raising my hand. Sharmila nodded and retrieved two from the 'fridge before coming over to sit near us.

"We just wanted to visit," Angie explained.

"Mm-mm," I said, shaking my head no as I struggled to open my Frappuccino. "That's not the only reason. We were hoping you pre-med majors would know something about these bizarre things we've been able to do lately."

"Tell me what you know," Ashley said, leaning forward.

"Just recently, I discovered the ability to heal other people's injuries," I said, glancing over at Angie. "She hurt her ankle and it magically healed after I touched it. Then, I healed Charlotte's tongue-ring-related woes just by touching her."

"My wrists hurt," Ashley added. "I had to type a big paper last night and now my wrists hurt. Do you think you can help me?"

"Sure!" I said cheerfully, touching Ashley's wrists and feeling that tingle again.

"You're a miracle," Ashley said, moving her wrists around wildly. "There's no pain!"

"Yeah, Charlotte told me that, but I don't believe it. However, I don't really know _what_ to believe…" I trailed off and Angie picked up the slack for me.

"Suddenly, I can understand any language." She and Sharmila then talked for a minute in what was probably Hindi while Ashley and I exchanged confused glances and shrugs.

"You know, I was just reading a book about this sort of thing," Ashley said, abruptly standing up and dashing off towards her room. "It's a really interesting book," she shouted from her room. "It posits that there are some genetic attributes, like the attributes that give us blue eyes, or freckles, or a tendency towards certain cancers, that just give people supernatural abilities. Ugh, where _is_ it? It has to be somewhere…Here it is!" She came back into the room, carrying a fairly thick book and beaming.

"What's it called?" I asked.

"_Activating Evolution_. It's by some Indian guy named…Help me here, Sharmila…"

"Chandra Suresh," Sharmila answered with exasperation, like she had been asked to do so many times before.

"Like I said, he theorizes that some folks just have certain strands of DNA enabling them to do superhuman things. He talks a lot about some guy he calls Patient Zero, which always reminds me of the AIDS Patient Zero, that guy in that one book by the other guy, but he really wasn't Patient Zero; he was Patient O…Hm…I forget the name of that book, too." Ashley's somewhat forgetful. She just has a lot of stuff to remember.

"_And the Band Played On_," Sharmila said helpfully.

"Right, that one. Anyway, _Activating Evolution_. It's a good book. It sometimes gets a little caught up in medical jargon, but we can translate that into layman's terms for you. Do you want to borrow it, Angela? Phoebe?" Ashley offered.

"Um, might not be the best idea there, cowgirl," Sharmila pointed out. "You know, it's a GSU library book and, well, they're not GSU students."

"Yet!" I barked. "I just paid my application fee a few days ago."

"Really? You're applying?" Sharmila asked with a pronounced squeak of excitement in her voice.

"Yeah, I'm applying to here and to UGA. You know I have to stay in state to get the HOPE Scholarship." HOPE pays tuition if you go to a public college in Georgia.

"So, this book explains why I can talk to Sharmila in Hindi and understand it all?" Angie asked Ashley, who nodded.

"It explains a _theory_, but Dr. Suresh is a leader in his field, so it's all reputable," Ashley said reassuringly. "It all seems reasonable to me. I'm no genetic biologist, but this one guy I know is…"

"I think I should write this down or something." Angie opened her giant purse and dug around inside for something to write on, finally bringing out the note on which she wrote about Dylan in French. "_Activating Evolution_, Chandra Suresh. I'll go check that out sometime."

"Hey, do y'all want to go get something to eat? We can go get something on campus," Ashley offered.

"I can help Sharmila study her Latin terms over lunch," Angie added.

"I have a paper for AP English to do," I said sadly. "But I can do that later. Let's go eat now."

* * *

After I took Angie home, I drove over to the nearest library and wandered over to the computers, inputting a search for Chandra Suresh's _Activating Evolution_. Of the copies available at this particular library, none were currently checked in. Dammit! But, down at the Decatur Library, there were some copies checked in. So, I motored over to the Decatur Library, hunted for a spot in the parking lot, went inside, found a copy, and checked it out, more than eager to read about a possible reason for why I can do the things I can do.

When I finally got back home, I saw Char's old Mustang in the driveway and presumed that she had her bandmates over. Well, I presumed correctly. I passed by the door leading down to Char's basement room and nearly choked on the smell of cigarette smoke. Yuck. I put _Activating Evolution_ down on my bed, then I went downstairs to say hello to Char. I kind of wish I had a gas mask or a Haz-Mat suit, though, because of the smell.

Char was sitting on her beat-up old couch, smoking with her bandmates, all of whom were men. There was Robbie, the guitarist, who called me "lil' sis." He's quite witty. Then, there's Josh, the bassist, who goes to drum circles a lot even though he can't drum for beans. Rounding out the motley crew is Matt, the drummer, who boasts about his arm strength due to his constant drumming. One time, he bench-pressed me. Good times.

"Feebs!" she exclaimed. "What's crackalackin'?" Oh God. Char only talks slang when she's high on something. What is it this time? "Hey, y'all, my sister has been touched with the gift."

"The gift? What're you talking about?" Robbie asked, scratching his unruly blond hair.

"Well, you know how I got my tongue pierced and all? Well, it really, really hurt and when Phoebe touched me, it didn't hurt anymore. If y'all have anything hurtin' on you, just ask Phoebe to help you out," Char said, waving her arms wildly.

"Char, don't," I said, blushing and staring at the cement floor.

"My arms hurt," Matt complained. I glanced over, caught his eyes, and raised my eyebrows as if to ask if he was for real. He nodded slightly, so I sighed, went over, and touched his arms. Once again, there was that tingle. Perhaps that's the sign that it's working; I've felt it every time I heal someone. "Thanks," Matt, who's fairly soft-spoken, said when I was done healing him.

"See? I told ya she's a miracle worker," Char bragged. "Robbie? Josh? Any aches or pains?"

"Well, in this old body of mine, everything hurts," Robbie, who's only 25, joked.

"I'm feeling okay right now," Josh said with a shrug.

"I have some work to do, so I'll see y'all later. Try not to be too loud, okay?" I cautioned the group as I moved towards the stairs.

"See you!" everyone called out in harmony.

* * *

I went into my room and shut the door to provide myself with more privacy. I cast a glance over at my computer and decided that the AP English paper could wait a little while because I just wanted to open _Activating Evolution_ and at least read a chapter or two. Look at how nerdy I am! I'm excited about reading a book when most of my peers would be content to do things like what Char and her bandmates do for recreation.

I cracked open the book and flipped past the first page, that one that has the Library of Congress info on it. Next up was the dedication page: "For Shanti." I wonder who Shanti is. Then came the foreword, written by some guy who had nothing but praise for Dr. Suresh and kept using terribly complicated medical jargon. Maybe I should read this only in Sharmila's presence. No! I can't give in now.

I flipped past that verbose introduction—it went on for _six more pages_—and finally reached Chapter 1, which dove straight into the findings from Dr. Suresh's genetics research. It was exactly as Ashley said it was: some people just have the genetic code that allows them to have supernatural powers. Simple as that. Chapter 1 was short, but Chapter 2 discussed which genetic codes were the special ones. I caught some of the genetics-speak because I was awesome at genetics when we studied it in 9th-grade biology, but clearly that biology class was only scraping the tip of an increasingly complicated iceberg. It made my head hurt and I had to stop reading for a while.

Turning back towards my computer, I booted it up and sat gazing at my calendar for a moment as it loaded everything. Then, I opened up iTunes, Word (for my paper), and Firefox. In the Google prompt that greeted me as my homepage, I typed in 'Chandra Suresh' and started doing a little sleuthing around, especially to see if anyone could translate his findings into normal English. There were a lot of criticisms of his work—many people dismissed him as nothing but a hack—but one of the results was for a page that promised "_Activating Evolution_ Explained!!" Wow, the two exclamation points must mean they're serious. I clicked on that link and was transported to a pretty normal-looking forum.

"Welcome to _Activating Evolution _Believers Anonymous," the page announced. "This is a forum for people to discuss the theories set forth in _AE _and the man behind it all. You are welcome to remain anonymous or to select a user name for your privacy. Please read the rules before posting."

Like the good girl I am, I read the rules, which were just standard-issue forum rules. Then, I poked around looking for some thread that would explain everything to me. Though it was a tad unrealistic of me to think one thread would magically do that, I found one that did the job pretty darn well. In this thread, a user called LizardMan laid out all the main points of _AE _(I like saying that) in neat, easy-to-read bullet points. The copious replies ranged from the likes of "wow, cool" to "wow, cool…hey, is this why I can walk through walls?" People who talked about their powers were directed to other threads where they could discuss them in depth, so I went over there and decided to put my own two cents in.

I chose the name PeachyKeen and began to type.

"I can heal other people." It was a simple reply, sure, but I didn't feel like giving out any more information. On other forums, I may have talked about my age, where I live, and other stuff like that so people could find things to comment on, but I didn't feel like doing that here. I sent my reply and went over to another forum that talked about the backlash, both against _AE_ and people who proudly displayed their powers in public (wow, what an alliteration). A man was murdered in Los Angeles for showing off his ability to run at superhuman speeds. A well-known preacher declared that people like me are flaws in God's great plan. They're floating the idea of a special boarding school for people like me.

What the hell? Why would people not like us? What did we ever do wrong to deserve their anger?

Am I really just a flaw?


	3. Fellowship

03: Fellowship

Note: I know Nathan Petrelli has the ability to fly. I figure that many other people would also have that ability.

I had been reading about this new T-shirt store in Cabbagetown, so I decided to go there on Saturday afternoon in hopes that it would make me feel better. If I'm a flaw, at least I'll be a fashionably-dressed flaw.

Parking in Cabbagetown is hit-or-miss, so I rode MARTA down there and walked the rest of the way to the store. I was able to pass through the Krog Street tunnel, where Atlanta's graffiti artists are given freedom to do their thing. Cavemen had their paintings; we have the Krog Street tunnel. It's really fascinating to look at and easy to miss in a car, so in a way, it was good that I was walking. I was able to explore the tunnel in depth.

Cabbagetown was once the home of a cotton mill surrounded by little shotgun houses for the workers. The factory is long gone—that building's a loft community now—and now people fix up the little houses and sell them for good wads of cash. Many artists have set up shop here because it's still fairly affordable to do so.

Just before the T-shirt store, I smelled coffee. I followed the scent over to one of the little houses, a red brick with blinds drawn over all the windows so nobody could peek inside. A hand-painted sign out front read "The Freak Show" in curly letters. I approached the stark black door and tried to open it, but it was locked.

"Damn," I muttered. I really wanted some coffee! I turned on my heel and started walking away when the door creaked open. Curious, I turned back around and saw a beautiful blonde woman smiling at me.

"Come in!" she sang, ushering me inside.

* * *

The Freak Show looked cozy and appealing. It was painted a soft brown color, which reminded me of coffee (that's probably the point). There were some assorted tables, chairs, sofas, and beanbag chairs for people to sit in, but nobody else was there yet. The woman scurried back behind the counter and started trying to wash dishes, but she was having trouble doing it. 

"Need some help?" I blurted out.

"Could you?" she asked with exasperation.

"Sure!" I said, stepping behind the counter.

"I'll start up the machines. I'm better at that. If you need me, just holler," she said, approaching an espresso machine.

"You run this place?" I asked as the water heated up and I searched for a stopper.

"Yep. It's my little piece of the pie. I have a few baristas, but they're not scheduled to come in for a little while."

"If you're still closed, why did you let me come in?" I put three big squirts of dishwashing liquid into the water and watched it bubble up.

"Because I know about you."

"Pardon me?"

"I saw you coming and I admitted you." I looked over at her, showing my utter confusion. What was she talking about? "Let me explain." I noticed one of those black-and-white surveillance TVs behind her. There were four different segments of the screen and all four of them were different views of the outside. "This shop is only for people with powers."

"You can tell that I have some?" I asked in awe.

"Yeah, that's _my_ power." She smiled. "My name's Lauren."

"I'm Phoebe."

"I like that name!" Lauren said sweetly. "So, what's your power?"

"I can heal other people."

"Sweet! I've burned myself on the milk steamer before—lousy thing—so can you heal little burns like that?" Lauren asked hopefully.

"Sure!"

"Can I just hire you right now?" Lauren squealed.

"Maybe. I live in Decatur, though, but getting over here didn't take too long on MARTA."

"Oh, a Decatur girl, huh? Are you in school?"

"High school. I'm a senior."

"What school do you go to? Decatur? Paideia?"

"Definitely not Paideia." I chuckled. "Silly hippies. I go to Druid Hills."

"I graduated from Druid Hills! How's the football team doing this year?"

"We won one game."

"Ouch. I have a little brother who goes there. Matter of fact, he's a senior too. Maybe you know him. His name's…Hang on a second, someone's coming." She turned around, blocking the view of her surveillance TV, and went for the door, beaming brightly. I looked over from the dishes, my hands all prune-y and soapy, and saw Lauren open the door to DYLAN!! This made me drop the dish I was scrubbing. Dylan has powers, too?

I heard them greet each other in French. He sounds so hot when he's speaking French. No wonder it's the language of love. Maybe Angie could tell me what they're talking about. Oh shit! My shirt is all wet! Panicking, I found an apron and tied it on, which covered the stain and made me look like a real barista.

"Oh! Phoebe!" Dylan suddenly exclaimed. "You work here?"

"I might. I offered to help Lauren with the dishes," I hastily explained, feeling my face go red. "Are you two siblings?"

"Yeah, Dylan's my little brother," Lauren told me proudly.

"We have AP English together," Dylan explained to Lauren.

"That's cool. If y'all ever need a place to study, come on down," Lauren offered.

"I don't mean to sound rude, but what's your power, Dylan?" I asked nervously.

"I can fly."

"No way! Are you joking?"

"Not at all. I didn't even bother to drive over here because I'm not parking my car in a gravel lot." He chuckled. "What's your power? I know for a fact that Lauren never lets 'normals' into the shop, not even to use the bathroom."

"Um, I can heal people," I said, blushing again. Gah! I wish my power was to tell my blood vessels NEVER to send blood to my cheeks!! I must look so stupid!

"Really? I scratched my knees up pretty badly at soccer practice yesterday. Can you heal that?"

"I sure can!" Oh. My. God. _I get to touch him!!! _I dried my hands on the apron and slowly walked over to him, my feet creaking on the floorboards and my mind racing with deranged thoughts of healing and then kissing him. I touched him on the wrist, my face as hot as a fire, and felt that familiar tingle. While I healed him, I looked up and met his gaze, which made me even hotter (am I running a fever or something?).

"Thanks," he said quietly, pulling up his pant legs to check his knees. Of course, they were now completely unhurt.

"You have to try that next time I get myself on the milk steamer," Lauren whispered.

"I'm gonna go now. Remember to call Maman when you get a chance," Dylan told Lauren, who nodded. "See ya, Phoebe."

"See ya," I said, waving and trying to act cool. I watched him leave, the door shutting behind him, and imagined him leaping into the air and flying off into the sky. I kind of want to fly away with him.

After Dylan left, I looked around and realized that Lauren was gone.

"Lauren?" I asked loudly. "Lauren, where'd you go?"

"I'm back, I'm back," Lauren said, handing me a piece of paper. "Here's an application. I pretty much want to hire you already, but this is just a formality to get you on file and whatnot. Do you want something to drink while you fill it out?"

"A vanilla latte would be awesome," I said.

"I'll get that started." Lauren went to work while I steadily filled out the form. A steaming hot vanilla latte in a cool blue mug soon appeared at my table, topped with a crown of whipped cream.

"It's cute," I commented. "I like the cup."

"Yeah, I don't use paper or plastic cups. For hot drinks, you get a mug or an insulated tumbler. For cold drinks, you get a tumbler or a cool milkshake glass. They're all reusable and have personality," Lauren explained. "My maman—I mean mom—gave me a lot of them." She smiled.

"I'm done with my form," I announced, sliding it across the table and taking my first sip of latte. Mmm. It was excellent, better than many that I've had before. "My God, this latte is great."

"Thank you," Lauren said, blushing. "Speaking of blushing, I saw you doing an awful lot of that at my brother."

"You noticed?" I asked into the mug.

"Honey, I notice everything. That's my power, remember?" Lauren asked, raising her eyebrow.

"I thought your power was being able to discern who has powers and who doesn't," I pointed out.

"Well, I'm very observant," Lauren said defensively. "I think it's cute. Dylan hasn't been with any girl since Anna Lisa…" She trailed off, her face ashen. I knew the story of Dylan and Anna Lisa. Who didn't? They were like the king and queen of the school. They even ran for senior class president and vice president (unsuccessfully) together. But one day, they just weren't together anymore. I heard rumors that it was because they weren't able to make time for each other.

"I'm not nearly as busy as Anna Lisa," I said.

"Dylan is somewhat busy, but you must remember the fact that he can fly if he wants to. That's much faster than driving." Lauren paused. "If you want me to set you two up, I can."

"I don't know," I said, glancing into my mug. "I don't know if he likes me or not."

"Ah, the everlasting dilemma of love," Lauren said breathily. "We can never know for sure until we act, you know? That's a subtle hint." She winked at me.

"But what should I do?"

"Hm…What does Dylan like…He likes confident, smart girls. Since you're in AP English, I can assume that you're smart. And you asked a total stranger if you could help do something menial like washing dishes. That is an example of confidence. You look like a nice person and I want to get to know you better."

"Thanks, Lauren." I smiled at my mug. "I'll do my best to figure something out."

"So, what kind of schedule are we talking about here? Do you have any limitations to what times you can work?" Lauren asked, folding her hands on the table.

"Well, because of how I travel to get here…" I started.

"You can park next to my car out back," Lauren said, pointing towards a wooden door in the back marked "Private" and nodding. "I live upstairs."

"No way! You live here? I bet that's so cool," I gushed.

"It is. Cabbagetown is a great neighborhood and I don't pay too much in rent. Anyway, I have a little gravel lot out back for the baristas and me. If you don't mind parking on gravel, you can park there," Lauren offered.

"Unlike Dylan, I don't mind a bit. His car's undercarriage is closer to the ground, though, so I could understand his aversion to parking on gravel." I shrugged. "Anyway, now that I know I won't have to wait around for the MARTA train to come, especially on weekends when they tend to single-track the trains, I'll see what I can do about working weeknights. My mom might not like that too much, though."

"Why's that?" Lauren queried.

"Ah, she says I need to concentrate on my edu-ma-cation," I said, laying on a thick Southern drawl for the last word.

"That's a noble cause," Lauren said. "Tell you what. Go find out from your mom exactly what time she would like for you to work. Then, give me a call and I'll fix up your schedule. Here's my number." She pointed to a number at the top of my application and I hurriedly programmed it into my phone. "You want to know Dylan's number, too?" she asked jokingly, winking.

I thought about it for a moment. Hey, why not? I'll probably chicken out on actually calling him for a while, but at least his number will be in there when I finally get the guts to do something.

"Sure," I said. Lauren effortlessly rattled off Dylan's number and I struggled to keep up with her while programming it in.

"I'm glad you're going to work here, Phoebe," Lauren said with a smile. "You look like a good kid. Some of the baristas are kind of Slack Alices, you know? They're too busy trying to hit on some guy to do their work. So, I hope you won't be like that."

"Rest assured, Lauren, I won't be a Slack Alice." I sipped the final sip of my latte and handed the mug back to Lauren. "I have to go now. Sorry that I can't wash that dish, too!" I joked.

"No problem. Call me later!" Lauren called as I gathered my bag and left. I shut the door and looked around to see if anyone else I knew was coming, but the coast was clear. I was preparing to walk back to the MARTA station when I realized that I hadn't even seen the T-shirt store yet! To make up for this gross oversight, I dashed over to the store and bought a ringer shirt depicting a cartoonish cupcake with evil beady eyes and sharp teeth. It was a little more expensive than, say, a shirt from Wal-Mart, but it was well worth it because I was supporting the artists.

Now carrying two bags, I staggered back to the MARTA station, where I gladly slid into one of the plastic bucket seats on a new train (white seats, blue cushions, good carpet, and air/heat that works) and dozed off on the way home. I didn't worry, though! If I go too far, I can always turn around. Oddly enough, I woke up just before the Avondale station, the one closest to my house, so I got off and drove home.

Char's car was gone, but Mom's car was in the driveway. I carefully parked next to hers and skipped inside, eager to tell her all the news. But what should I tell her? Everything? Even the whole powers thing? I mean, she is my mom, so she should know it all, right? I turned my keys in the door as I gave this some thought and came inside to the smell of cookies.

"Cookies," I commented as I sniffed the air. "Peanut butter cookies?"

"Hi, honey!" Mom sang when she saw me. "I got bored, so I decided to make some cookies." Mom gets "bored" sometimes over the weekends. She works at the CDC—that's the Centers for Disease Control, just up the street from Druid Hills—and sometimes she likes to think of things other than infectious diseases. She went through an oil painting period one time just after 9/11 because all the work-related worries were weighing down on her. Some of the works she made then were pretty damn impressive. Most of them are just hanging out in the basement, but I pilfered a few for my room.

"They smell excellent," I said. "Are they peanut butter?"

"You bet. They're the kind where you push a Hershey's Kiss down into their center when they're done baking but haven't cooled down yet," Mom commented, peering into the oven to see if they were done or not. "They're done!" She pulled on two oven mitts and attempted to move the cookies over to the counter, but her grip slipped and the hot cookie tray came in contact with her bare wrist.

"Look out!" I said, but it was too late.

"Shit!" Mom hissed, immediately grabbing her arm. I _also_ grabbed her arm—there goes the tingle—and soon she was looking confused. "He-ey, it doesn't hurt anymore."

"I know," I muttered, taking the mitts and putting the cookies onto the counter.

"Why not?"

I froze in place while looking around for the Hershey's Kisses.

"Um…" Well, it's now or never. "Mom, there's something I need to tell you about me…"

So, while standing in the kitchen, oven mitts on my hands, I explained everything I knew, and I mean everything. I started with the Angie ankle incident, moved through the other incidents, discussed _Activating Evolution_, and ended up at right now.

"Is that all?" Mom asked me.

"D-do you hate me now? Am I a flaw now?" I asked weakly.

"No, sweetie. How could I ever think that about you?" Mom said, engulfing me in a hug.

That's better. I don't feel like a flaw anymore.


	4. Effect

04: Effect

Note: Phoebe is singing and dancing to "1 LOVE" by Ayumi Hamasaki at the beginning. It's one of those Japanese songs she talks about listening to (and it's just a darn good song, so you should download it now).

I was watching Saturday Night Live and wanted to eat one of those good peanut butter kiss cookies, so I quietly tiptoed into the kitchen and attempted to take one from their rack without making any noise. While I nibbled on the cookie, I started doing some crazy impromptu dancing to a song I was listening to recently. The dancing involved a lot of dramatic hair tossing, shimmying, and maybe a little booty-shaking. I was trying to emulate a look that was both glamorous and sexy. I don't know how good I looked, but I was having fun.

"Just one love!" I stage-whispered, tossing my hair. In the original song, that phrase comes just before the rockin' chorus. When my field of vision cleared, I saw Robbie standing there, looking quite confused. "Um…hi."

I'll readily bring out one of the few skeletons in my closet—Robbie and I were a couple once. I was 16; he was 21. If I ran to the authorities crying "rape," then Robbie would definitely be behind bars right now doing hard time for statutory. But I never needed to do such a thing. We weren't serious and the farthest we ever got was just some making out. He and I have some stuff in common and I liked the fact that he had a car (that was before I had my own).

Of course, now I'm into Dylan, but I'll admit that Robbie is still attractive, too. It's just…_different_ now. I can't really explain it.

"Hey," Robbie said, nodding his head. "Are those cookies?"

"Better believe it. They're peanut butter kisses and they're awesome," I replied.

"Can I take one?" Robbie asked.

"Be my guest," I said, gesturing to the rack.

"I had to take a break from Char and the guys," Robbie explained gruffly. "They're getting into some harder stuff, Phoebe."

"Harder? What do you mean?" I asked, worried.

"Like cocaine," Robbie whispered.

"COCAINE?!" I screamed, immediately clapping my hands over my mouth. "Oh my GOD!" I hissed moments later. "Who got them cocaine?!"

"Who _always_ gets them this stuff?" Robbie asked sarcastically. "Big Red, of course."

"That bitch," I muttered under my breath.

"Anyway, I was getting sick of the snorting noises. What are you up to?"

"I'm watching SNL. Wanna watch?" I asked, pointing to my room.

"Why not? I need a laugh."

Robbie followed me to my room, where we sat down on different sides of my bed, facing the TV but not each other. We both laughed our way through Weekend Update, which was followed immediately by a damn commercial break.

"So…" I said, trying to break the awkwardness. I looked over, maybe hoping to make a funny face at Robbie so he would laugh, but he was gone. "Robbie? Where'd you go?" I looked around, confused, but my question was soon answered when he suddenly appeared in front of me. He grinned and started tickling me. Ah hell no! He knows how ticklish I am! In fact, he used to tickle me all the time...

"Gotcha!" he said victoriously.

"Where did you go?" I asked through my laughing.

"It's a secret," he replied.

"N-n-not fair!" I yelped. "Gahhh! Stop it! I'm gonna get you back!" I threatened, kicking him off me using my bare foot. He fell and hit my wall with a good bit of force, making a sickening smacking noise. Oh crap. "Oh my God! Robbie! I'm so sorry!" Immediately, I got up and rushed to his side, touching his arm and feeling that tingle.

"Thanks," he said, smiling wearily. I looked up and caught his gaze, so I smiled slightly, the same smile I give to strangers in the hallway when our gazes meet. However, strangers in the hallway usually don't follow that slight smile by kissing me.

Is it bad to say that, for a moment there, I enjoyed it? Robbie was running his hand through my hair, his lips were soft, and he smelled like the clove cigarettes he smoked occasionally…No. I can't do this. I like Dylan now, so I pulled away.

"Hey…" Robbie muttered when his lips left mine.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered to him, my heart still pounding. "I like someone else now."

"Who's the lucky fella?" Robbie asked, looking slightly distressed.

"You don't know him. He goes to my school," I explained, flustered. Wow, I _really_ want to change the subject. Thankfully, there's an easy topic sitting right in front of me. Literally. "Hey, when you suddenly disappeared for a moment, what really happened?"

"It's something I've been able to do recently. Check it out." Robbie shut his eyes for a moment and disappeared into thin air, only to reappear a moment later on my bed. "I'm over here now." I whirled around to face him.

"You can turn invisible? That's _awesome_!" I gasped.

"I think your power is better." Robbie smiled. "Phoebe, I'm sorry."

"Why? What's wrong?"

"I'm an idiot. I kissed you when we were supposed to just be friends. I can't explain why, either. Maybe it's because you were just being so cute and funny when you were dancing in the kitchen, or just hanging out up here and watching SNL instead of listening to snorting, but for some reason, I couldn't help myself…" Robbie looked down at the floor, ashamed.

"Don't worry about it," I insisted. "It's okay. Everyone slips up once in a while. But you have powers, too?"

"Yeah. I discovered them after you healed Matt's arms. By the way, he's ever-thankful for that and wants me to give him your number so he can just call you next time he needs healing."

"Um, that's okay, I guess," I said sheepishly. "I'm worried about Char now. She's doing cocaine? What could happen to her?"

"Well," Robbie—who was now sitting in my computer chair, looking at Wikipedia—said. "Increased blood pressure, increased heart rate, euphoria, increased sexual interest and pleasure, twitching, paranoia, impotence…"

"Impotence?!" I howled. "First, you really want to do someone, then you're rendered unable to do anyone! Man, cocaine is one hell of a drug! Rick James was right." I miss Chappelle's Show.

"That's just with casual use. Over time, the drug produces hallucinations, paranoid delusions, itching, tachycardia—that means your heart isn't pumping normally—and formication."

"Formication? You mean fornication?" That's just another term for sex!

"No, you pervert, it's formication. It's also called delusional parasitosis. It's when you think there are bugs under your skin. They call them cocaine bugs. They can cause serious skin damage and bleeding."

"This stuff could happen to my sister?" I said, furious. "I'm not going to let this happen!" I leapt off my bed and stomped downstairs, the smells of pot and cigarettes getting stronger as I drew closer to Char's room.

"Phoebe, wait!" Robbie demanded, appearing in front of me. "It might not be a good idea to go inside. They're really high and when they get really high, they get…crazy."

"Robbie, this is my sister. My_ family_. My _blood_. I'm not just going to sit around idly, watching TV and getting fatter, while she ingests stuff that might cause her to think there are BUGS crawling around beneath her skin!" I shouted in Robbie's face, tears welling up in my eyes. "Let me go in there!" I roared.

"Not without me," Robbie said, taking a hold of my hand. "We can go in now." He opened the door and ushered me inside. There was a mirror on the coffee table that was littered with little piles of white powder—undoubtedly the cocaine. Char, Matt, and Josh were all hanging out. Josh was discussing something about how 'Congress' is the opposite of 'progress' while Matt looked for something to watch on TV and Char rolled up a dollar bill to snort with. Robbie squeezed my hand tightly.

"Char," I said, my voice cracking. She was just about to kneel down and snort a huge pile, so I stopped her just in time. "Char, I don't want you to do cocaine. Robbie and I read about its effects and they're really messed up."

"You might get the cocaine bugs," Robbie added.

"Are you two an item again?" Char asked, sniffling.

"N-no. Robbie is just helping me say this to you because he and I both know you might not listen to us at first. But try to get this through your head, Charlotte. If you keep doing cocaine, your heart might start pumping all weird. You could start hallucinating. _And_ you could get the cocaine bugs."

"So? Big deal. If any of that shit happens to me, I'll just get you to do the miracle touch on me and heal it. In fact, my nose hurts. Can you heal that?"

I instinctively stepped forward to heal her, but Robbie held me back.

"Don't do it this time," he whispered.

"But," I began, looking up at him. He just shook his head no. "Okay."

"God, Robbie, quit controlling her. She's almost 18, you know. She can think for herself what she wants to do," Char said viciously.

"Ey, when she turns 18, you can get with her and it won't be statutory," Josh pointed out.

"I don't want to get with her anymore," Robbie said, abruptly dropping my hand.

"That wasn't what you said last night," Matt grumbled.

"I can't stand this!" I cried, tugging at the ends of my hair. "I can't stand it when you all get drunk and high! You all just act like morons all night long! All of you can go to hell. I won't ever heal any of you again! You all don't deserve my powers because you're throwing your lives away for a high that only lasts a few hours!" I screamed every word of this with my eyes squeezed shut, hot tears rolling down my cheeks. "FUCK ALL OF YOU!" I whirled around and went back upstairs, slamming the door behind me. Sobbing, I ran into my room and shut the door, burying my head in the pillow and crying my eyes out until they were dry as deserts and itched like crazy.

"Hey," Robbie said softly.

"Go away," I demanded.

"But…"

"I said go away," I commanded.

"Listen, Phoebe…"

"What is it? Are you going to tell me what the hell Matt and Josh were talking about? What did you say last night? I don't want to be in a relationship with you, Robbie. I want to be with Dylan! Okay? DYLAN! He's a nice, normal, well-adjusted boy."

"Okay."

"What?"

"I said okay. You deserve him. I won't come on to you anymore. Hey, did you really mean what you said to all of us before you left the room?" He sat down on my bed.

"I meant it…to everyone but you. Robbie, promise me you won't do any cocaine or anything like that. I want you to watch over Charlotte when I'm not around or whatever. I want you to be my sister's keeper, basically." I sniffled and wiped my eyes.

"I promise you I'll do that," Robbie said softly. He moved up next to me and wiped both my eyes with a tissue. "I hate seeing women cry," he said as an afterthought. "Especially when I'm part of the problem. So, I promise to help solve the problem."

"Thank you," I said hoarsely.

"You're welcome. Hey, Phoebe?" Robbie turned to leave, but stopped in his tracks.

"Yeah?"

"You're a brave gir—I mean, _young woman_ for saying what you did down there."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome. I'll leave now."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight." He shut the door and then he was gone.

I fell asleep with my TV on. I looked up and saw that it was nearing 9 in the morning. As I stretched before getting up from my bed, I glanced over at where Robbie landed last night after I kicked him…where he kissed me one last time…but now that's over. You know what I should do? I should call Dylan sometime. His phone number is in my book. Is it too early to call now? Would that make me look like some sort of weirdo? I think I'll take a rain check on that one.

Char was sitting at the breakfast nook, lazily pushing some scrambled eggs around on a plate, when I arrived.

"Morning," I muttered, searching for the paper. She grumbled something unintelligible in response. I found the paper, removed it from its plastic bag, and started looking for my favorite parts: the front page, issue (a Sunday-only opinions section), Metro, Sunday Living, Travel, and the comics. Then, to avoid conflict with Char, I took my paper and moved over to the couch, out of her line of sight.

"Phoebe," Char began. "Why didn't you heal me last night?"

"Like I said," I said, bristling. "I'm not going to use my powers on intelligent adults who know—or have the ability to learn—exactly what effects drugs have on them and, regardless of these potentially fatal effects, go right ahead and do drugs anyway. I don't even know what extent I can heal to." I opened the issue section and began to read.

"What if I told you I didn't want to do drugs anymore?" Char asked.

"Are you serious?" I asked.

"So serious. I'm going to quit," Char declared. "I have the worst hangover ever this morning, plus I'm out of money from buying all that stuff I did last night, so I started to wonder what the point was. When you came downstairs and declared that you wouldn't heal me, though, that was the turning point."

Thank God. I am so glad Char has decided to quit. It's way past time that she did so. I think I should call Angie and tell her about it. Then there's Dylan. Ideally, I should call him, too, but who knows if that will happen today? None of that matters right now. What does matter is Char's decision, and I need to show her that it was a good decision, so I went over and gave her a hug.


	5. Revolution

05: Revolution

Note: Now you get to know who LizardMan is!

"Yeah, she decided to quit," I told Angie the next day as we were walking into Dr. RK's classroom. "She said that I was her turning point."

"That's so awesome, Feebs!" Angie chirped. "But aren't you worried about withdrawal symptoms?" That sentence hit me like a tanker truck. No, I hadn't given any thought to withdrawal symptoms. How bad could they get? I told Angie this and she sagely nodded at me when I was done.

"That, my friend, is what Google is for. You should go to the library and use it during lunch."

"Won't the librarians get all strict about an Internet pass?" I queried.

"Not if you tell Dr. RK. She's your favorite teacher, right? Surely she'd write you a pass if you tell her what you need the Internet for." Angie grinned because she knew what I was going to say next.

"Don't call me Shirley," I declared. "Good call on the RK thing, though. I'll tell her after class." Until then, I had a boy that I could gawk at. While I gawked, though, I couldn't help but think about Robbie. What was he thinking when he kissed me? _Was_ he thinking? I didn't know he had powers, too. I wonder: how many people in Atlanta have powers? Maybe we could all meet up somewhere for a freak convention.

When the bell rang, ushering us to second period, I hung back for a minute and waited for Dr. RK while she talked to another student about our homework assignment.

"Dr. RK," I began meekly. She turned to look at me, smiling.

"Yes, Phoebe?" she asked, adjusting her fashionable tortoiseshell glasses.

"Do you need an Internet pass to use the library computers at lunch?" I asked. "If so, may I have one? There's some research I need to do." I decided to wait and see if I needed to explain the situation fully.

"Sure," Dr. RK said, going towards her incredibly cluttered desk and pawing around for the Internet passes. "What lunch period do you have?"

"A," I replied. Dr. RK nodded, scrawled some stuff down on the pass, and handed it to me. "There you go, Phoebe. Don't be late to second period, okay?" she joked.

"Will do!" I said, stuffing the pass in my pocket and dashing out into the jam-packed hallway.

I couldn't wait long enough for second period to end so I could hustle over to the library and get on the computer. Angie already knew to meet me there, so when the bell rang, I rushed from the room like a racehorse from the starting gate. However, you must remember that there are about 1200 kids at my school and that it's fairly small because it was built a long time ago. These factors make it pretty hard to navigate the hallways at any given time. You always have to watch out for the incredibly slow walkers, the overzealous couples, the five-abreasts, and the other hallway obstructers. (Angie and I identified the full list of hallway obstructers back in sophomore year.)

Finally, I reached the library, which was empty except for a few other students on the computers and the staff. I turned in my library pass, selected one of the few Windows XP computers, and set about opening Internet Explorer. Once it was loaded, I typed in Google and then searched for 'withdrawal symptoms.' The first result was from a reputable-looking site, so I clicked on it and was taken to a site that listed withdrawal symptoms from all sorts of substances. Heck, I haven't even heard of some of these substances.

I sat there, trying to remember the things Charlotte's done before, counting them on my fingers. Let's see. First, there's cigarettes—nicotine. Then, there's pot—marijuana. She's been getting into coke, too—cocaine. She also likes to drink—alcohol. That's four things. I opened each page in a different window (ugh, the library _so_ needs to switch to Firefox for the tabbed browsing) and started looking around each of them, playing the compare-and-contrast game with them.

Looks like some of them have similar symptoms, like sleeplessness and cravings, while withdrawing from alcohol can produce hallucinations and withdrawing from cocaine may cause a grand mal seizure. Wait a second, a grand mal seizure? I cross-researched grand mal seizure on Wikipedia and discovered that those are the kind that cause you to convulse and whatnot—the really serious, medical emergency kind.

I copy-pasted some of the more important information about each substance's symptoms, e-mailed it to myself, and wondered if the _AE_ Believers Anonymous forum was accessible from school computers. See, we have this terribly strict proxy called WebSense (nerdy folks like me sometimes refer to it as WebNonsense) that blocks a whole bunch of stuff, including blogs like the Huffington Post. How am I supposed to get my Huffington on if I can't get to her blog? However, I was soon surprised to find that _AEBA _(acronyms are fun) was not on the WebNonsense blacklist, but I was doubly surprised to find a private message waiting for me from LizardMan.

"Hello, PeachyKeen," it began. "I like your nickname. Do you have powers?" Hm. It was a simple message, but I decided to put in a reply.

"Yes, I do," I replied. "I can heal people." I sent the message, then went to look in the news forum, but when I clicked over to the very next page, there was a reply. Damn, that's fast.

"That's wonderful. Have you read _Activating Evolution_?"

"I've done my best, but sometimes it goes too deeply into medical jargon for me to understand. That's why I really appreciate this forum, especially your summary of the book." Wow! I pressed the send button and there was a reply like five seconds later! This continued to happen—LizardMan must be watching his computer like a hawk!

"Yes, my father had a penchant for the jargon." Father?

"Your father? Chandra Suresh is your father?"

"He was—he's dead now. But that's not the point here. May I enquire as to where you live?" Hm, he spelled inquire the British way.

"May I ask what your name is?"

"Pardon me for not saying it before. I'm Mohinder Suresh."

"Cool. I'm Phoebe Reid."

"Where do you live, Phoebe? I'm originally from Madras, in India, but right now I'm in New York City." Wow, New York City. That's pretty cool.

"I live in Atlanta," I replied proudly. "Just wondering: why do you want to know? I don't mean to sound rude."

"You're on my list." My heart stopped for a moment. A list?

"What list?" I demanded, my fingers trembling as they struck the keys. Is this like a hit list or something? I once knew a girl who had a hit list.

"Don't worry, it's nothing bad. My father created a program to find what he called 'special people,' though I always thought that nickname as somewhat condescending…That's neither here nor there. I was simply wondering if you were aware of the proposed vaccination."

"Vaccination? Yuck, I hate needles. No, I don't know anything about this. Please, tell me."

"I'm not fond of needles either. The Centers for Disease Control—I believe their headquarters is in Atlanta—has secret plans to start research on a vaccination that would deactivate your powers." Say what? This is happening right down the street from me?

"They're doing what? How do you know about this? The CDC is right down the street from my school!"

"I know of this because someone working there e-mailed me. They know about my credentials and wondered if I could contribute to the project."

"Well, I hope you said no!"

"Of course I said no. This whole idea is foolish. They want to make a vaccine that would literally turn off the genetic building blocks that give you your powers."

"What can I do about it?"

"Simple. I am planning a revolution. In exactly a month, there will be a march on the CDC headquarters. We will peacefully protest these plans, following in the footsteps of Gandhi and Dr. King. You are invited to attend and spread the word to anyone around you who does not use this forum." A revolution? A march on the CDC? Sounds pretty awesome. Let's see: today's November 6, so a month from now will be December 6, just two days following my birthday!

"I'm in," I said, glancing at the clock on the computer. Jesus! I only have about five minutes to eat. "I'm sorry, but I have to go now. I'll be back on later."

"That's fine. Remember to spread the word, Phoebe."

"Will do, Mohinder." I signed out.

"Bitch, where _were_ you?" Angie jokingly asked through a mouthful of sandwich when I finally came into the cafeteria and sidled into the booth she staked out for us.

"I'm sorry, I was held up. I found some stuff about withdrawal, but then I found out something even cooler." I leaned forward, securing a bit of privacy. "There's gonna be a revolution next month."

"A what now?" Angie shouted.

"A revolution!" I shouted back.

"Dude, sweet! What's the revolution for?"

"Well, I read that the CDC is planning a vaccine for _gifted_ people…" I motioned to myself. "And I got a message saying that a huge peaceful protest is planned for December 6. Keep that date clear on your calendar."

"Someone wants to use medicine to eradicate us?" Angie barked.

"No, it wouldn't kill us. It would just sterilize our powers."

"And yet they don't have a cure for cancer."

"I know, right? I mean, we're not doing any harm. Shit, our powers could help someone. You could work for the CIA, translating documents so we can find the next 9/11 and stop it from happening. I could open a clinic from my bedroom and invite people to come over for free healing. I just don't understand the world sometimes…"

"Well, I'll come to the protest. I think it'll be fun and it'll spread the word," Angie said cheerfully. "Want my chips?"

"Sure." I grabbed a handful of Angie's chips and chewed on them while trying to think of something to say. "Oh, did I tell you about Robbie?" I asked, crumbs of chip accidentally dropping out of my mouth.

"Um, no," Angie said sharply, perhaps miffed by the crumbs. "What's the news?"

"Well, of course he and the rest of the band were over, hanging out, and I was upstairs watching SNL in my room. He comes up and tells me that the rest of the band is downstairs sniffing coke and he got sick of the sniffing noises. So, we're just chillin', watchin' SNL together, when during a commercial break he starts tickling me."

"Oh my God, like old times," Angie commented, rolling her eyes.

"Exactly. Then I think I kicked him in the face or something—you know I cured it right away, but I was still mortified by the fact that _I kicked him in the face_—and right afterwards…" I looked down at the table for a moment, studying the grooves in its imitation wood pattern surface as I tried to piece together the second part of my sentence.

"Bell's gonna ring," Angie reported, looking at the clock mounted on the wall. Oh great, now she's putting the pressure on me!

"Then we kissed!" I barked. Oh no, did Dylan hear that? No, he and the popular crew always tend to eat outside. OK, I'm safe for now.

"You what?!" Angie gasped, clapping her hand over her mouth. "Who started it?" she asked a moment later.

"Um, he did," I said shamefully.

"Thought so, but I wanted to make sure. Well…" Angie reclined in her seat and folded her hands in her lap. "What do _you_ think of the whole situation?" Classic therapy question: how does that make you feel?

"Nice question there, Dr. Phil," I said jokingly. "It makes me feel confused as hell. He tried to pass it off as an accident, but it seems too orchestrated to be an accident at all. I mean, we never really broke up and I don't think he's dated ever since we went out."

"Technically, you two could still be classified as together," Angie pointed out.

"Jesus," I muttered under my breath. "Oh, and then I found out the dude can make himself invisible."

"Oh, Feebs, what if he's hiding in your shower, just waiting until the next time you gotta clean your stank ass up," Angie asked, giggling heartily.

"Shut UP!" I shouted, throwing her empty chip bag at her. "And drop the ghetto accent. You can't do it!"

"Well, isn't it possible? Does he go, like, truly invisible, or is there a little outline still there, like when Bobby plays Halo and goes invisible?" Angie's eyes widened as she awaited my answer.

"Mm, truly invisible," I said with a hint of nervousness. Ew, what if he _is_ hiding there? No way, he can't be hiding there. He, unlike the other men in the band, has a job to go to. He doesn't have time to skulk around people's showers. But it's still a creepy thought, like when that one weird Goth kid told me what felching was.

"Feebs, you better be careful!" Angie squealed. "Maybe you should carry a cane or something and just swoop it around. Surely he would be able to feel that or something."

"Don't call me Shirley," I commanded. "That's a really creepy thought, Angie, and one I wish I didn't have floating around in my head."

"Mm, you'd rather have Dylan waiting there, no?" Angie said with another giggle.

"You're a crackhead," I said angrily.

"Ooh, who's hotter?" Angie leaned forward.

"What?"

"You heard me. Who's hotter?"

"Angie, I'm gonna kick your ass all the way to Taiwan."

"You're blushing."

"So? It's hot in here."

"It's always either too hot or cold. Your body is used to it after four years here. Come on, Feebs, answer the damn question before the bell rings. Who's hotter?"

"I'm not going to. I plead the fifth."

"You pretty much give up your constitutional rights when you enter the building. Just ask the newspaper staffers."

"Fuck you."

"That's probably what Robbie wants to do."

"Angie! Seriously!"

"C'mon, please? I'll buy you a cookie."

"It better be a melty cookie."

"It will be the meltiest cookie ever seen inside the Perimeter." The Perimeter, otherwise known as I-285, is this circular highway that makes a ring around Atlanta, separating ITP (Inside the Perimeter) from OTP (Outside the Perimeter). The two factions are bitterly divided in the same way as those goofy rival gangs you see in Broadway musicals.

"Fine, fine. I think…they're both hot."

"What a cop-out!"

"Hey, you never explicitly said I had to choose just one."

"You're right, I didn't. Damn. Way to exploit the loopholes."

"Loophole deez nuts."

"So, would you have a threesome with them?"

"Angie, what the hell…" Thankfully, before I had to answer (or stall before saying an answer), the bell rang. "We'll continue this conversation in my car." I hope I forget about the topic at hand.

Of course, I didn't. I sat through my too-confusing math class and thought of Robbie and Dylan for an hour and a half with few interruptions. I want to think about that revolution that Mohinder guy was planning, not about some hypothetical threesome that will obviously never happen because Dylan has no idea about anything related to me. Robbie, on the other hand…No, I won't think about it, and Angie didn't mention it throughout the whole ride home because she was too busy ranting about her own math class.

When I got home, there was a message on my phone from Lauren, asking if I could come in to work on Saturday. Hell yeah, I can come in to work on Saturday! I need to get some money anyway, plus I may be able to get closer to Dylan this way. Who knows what might happen?


	6. Excitement

06: Excitement

I came in to work ten minutes early because I wanted to make a good first impression on Lauren, after all. I parked next to a green pickup truck that had a back bumper coated with Democratic stickers, got out, put my phone on silent, and went inside via the back door. I passed by the back office, where Lauren sat typing something into an Excel spreadsheet, and clocked in.

"Hi, Lauren," I said cheerfully, fetching an apron and quickly tying it on.

"You're early," Lauren noted. "Felicia isn't here yet."

"Who's Felicia?" I asked.

"The other barista scheduled to work this shift. She lives in the lofts over there." Lauren typed away, saved the document, and came over to me. "I'll show you how to set up for the day. It's all about turning the machines on and brewing the first cup. Felicia handles baked goods, so you don't need to worry about any of that." I nodded. "You nervous?"

"A little," I said sheepishly.

"Don't be. You'll do fine. If you need any help, just holler." Lauren patted my shoulder and went back to Excel. I started switching on all the machines—the milk steamer, cappuccino machine, blenders, grinders, and even the admittedly old-school Mr. Coffee. As I busied myself turning on all the machines, my thoughts drifted towards Dylan. I was wading knee-deep in a daydream when I heard someone come inside, which immediately brought me back to reality.

"Oh, are you the new girl?" a beautiful Asian woman with bobbed black hair and amber eyes asked as she put on an apron.

"Yeah, I'm Phoebe." I extended my hand for a shake.

"Felicia's the name," Felicia replied, shaking my hand firmly. "It's good to have some more help around here." She set about making some sort of cookies. Both of us worked quietly for a few more minutes, which gave me more time to daydream of Dylan. I wonder if he'll come in today.

"All right, ladies, I'm opening up," Lauren declared, seating herself in a comfortable chair so she could see her surveillance screen. Opening up The Freak Show doesn't involve turning on a neon sign, though. No, that's too conspicuous. Lauren always gives individual access to people.

"So, how old are you, Phoebe?" Felicia asked, arranging a batch of cookies on a tray to look like a flower.

"I'm almost 18. Hey, didn't you just put those cookies in the oven?"

"Yeah," Felicia sang, plopping chunks of chocolate chip cookie dough onto a cookie sheet. She held the sheet tightly, shut her eyes, and in mere seconds the chunks became perfectly-baked cookies with the chips all melted.

"Cool," I whispered.

"Yeah, Feli is the greatest chef I've ever seen," Lauren bragged. "She could give Emeril a run for his money. You know, Feli, Phoebe here can heal people."

"You should be a doctor," Feli told me.

"Nah, I'll pass. I'm no good with blood. Plus, being solely responsible for whether someone lives or dies is far too much pressure for me," I explained bashfully.

"Dylan wants to be a doctor," Lauren declared.

"Does he?" I asked in response, trying to play it cool but failing miserably at hiding my blush.

"Maybe you could call him McDreamy, like on Grey's Anatomy," Feli suggested, giggling.

"Hush!" I barked, hiding my face.

"Lauren, may I make the assumption that Phoebe has a 'thing' for Dylan?" Feli asked, instantly baking a giant chocolate cake.

"Your assumption is correct," Lauren replied, grinning like the cat that ate the canary.

"Aw, young love is so cute," Feli cooed.

"Oh, please! You're only 21," Lauren snapped. "You're not that much older than Phoebe."

"Maybe so," Feli said, shrugging. "So, are you two an item?"

"No," I answered sadly. "I don't know how to ask him, you know, out or anything. Last time I had a boyfriend, neither of us asked the other out. We just kind of got together." That's true, as Angie reminded me a little while ago.

"Well, all you gotta do is say, 'Hey, wanna get some coffee?' or something," Feli told me.

"If only it were that easy," I grumbled.

"Maybe it is…" Lauren whispered, taking out her cell phone. I took this time to examine my fingernails. One of them has a little white spot. I remember reading somewhere that, supposedly, a white spot means a boy is thinking about you. But which boy is it? Could it be Dylan, Robbie, my dad, or someone else entirely? As I gazed at the white spot, I heard the front door creak open (that door is incredibly creaky). Hoping to serve my very first customer, I eagerly looked up, smiling brightly, and saw Dylan.

"Hey, Lauren, Felicia, Phoebe," he said casually.

"Hey," we answered.

"C'mon, Phoebe, make a sale," Lauren said, pushing me forward.

"Can do," I said. "Welcome to The Freak Show," I told Dylan in my new salesperson voice. "Can I get something started for you?"

"I'll have the usual—I mean, a small vanilla latte."

"OK," I said, typing the small vanilla latte's item number into the cash register. "Anything else?"

"No, that's it," Dylan said.

"All righty." I added the tax and told the register to total up the order. "That'll be $3.25, please." Oh God, we're going to touch again! Yay! He whipped out a blue credit card—wow, he has a credit card—and handed it to me. I peered at the card for a moment before swiping it and waiting for the two receipts to print. The copy for me had an option to give a tip. "Here you go," I said, giving Dylan his receipts and a pen.

"Is this is your first sale?" he asked, taking the pen.

"It is," I answered proudly. I then watched as Dylan wrote down a tip of $5. Yes, five full dollars. I grabbed the counter in shock. "Y-y-your drink will be up very soon."

"Thanks," Dylan said, grinning and going to sit down.

"PHOEBE!" Feli whispered as I began to make the drink. "Phoebe, now's your chance. When you deliver his drink, ask him out!"

"I'm nervous," I whispered back.

"Don't be! I know you can do it." Feli patted my shoulder. "Make that drink, go out there, and ask him out!"

Needless to say, I was incredibly nervous while making the drink. I did make it, though, but my hands shook while I took the drink over. Dammit! Why can't I play it cool?

"Here's your drink," I squeaked, putting the drink down.

"Thanks," he said.

"Hey, I have a quick question." I heard Feli make a little noise—of suspense, I assume—and I bet she and Lauren were looking on intently. "Um, this sounds silly because we're in a coffeehouse, but wanna get some coffee sometime?"

"Sure. How's tonight sound?" It sounds perfect, but I can't say that because I don't want to seem overzealous.

"Cool. Here, I'll give you my number and we'll make more definite plans. I get off at 2." I saw Dylan get out his phone, so I rattled off my number and carefully watched as he programmed it in. He has nice hands. I wonder if he'll let me hold one.

"I'll call you after 2," Dylan declared, taking the first sip of his latte. "This is great, thanks."

"You're welcome," I replied, floating over to the counter again. When I got there, Feli and Lauren gave me subtle high-fives.

"That was super-smooth, Phoebe," Lauren commented. "Plus, you made your very first sale."

"Yeah, for which I got a tip of $5," I said, showing off the receipt.

"$5 on a $3.25 bill?" Feli gasped. "That's, like, a 150 tip."

"Ah, Dylan gave me a $5 tip on my first sale, too," Lauren said dismissively. "He's generous." Still, that was a really nice thing to do, so I thanked him profusely when he left.

"You know, if it's a slow day, I'll let you go home early," Lauren offered. Though this was a kind offer, it ended up being the exact opposite of a slow day. After Dylan left, a steady stream of customers poured in, all wanting something. Nobody else tipped me $5 on $3.25, though many people were fond of depositing their change into my tip jar. I clocked out at 2 feeling thoroughly exhausted until Lauren gave me a vanilla latte on the house as a reward.

"Thanks for the latte," I said as I clocked out.

"No problem. Hey, Phoebe?" Lauren asked just as I was opening the back door.

"Yes?"

"Good luck. I think you and Dylan would be good for each other."

"Thanks!" I waved to Lauren and went out to my car. Once I got in, I turned my phone back on and immediately dialed Angie.

"Yello?" she answered after just one ring.

"Angie, it's Phoebe. Guess what?"

"What?"

"I worked my first shift today and Dylan came in. He gave me a $5 tip on a $3.25 bill. Then…" I sighed contentedly. "I asked him out."

"NO WAY! How did you do that?!"

"His sister Lauren—my boss—coached me. We're going for coffee at a different place later on. I'm nervous as hell. My stomach hurts." I rubbed my stomach.

"Just be yourself," Angie told me. "To thine own self be true, as it's said in Hamlet. If it turns out he doesn't like you, then forget about him."

"You're right. I shouldn't stress out about it. I'll just go home and watch some funny stuff on YouTube until he calls. I'll call you later on with all the news."

"Good luck! Bye!" Angie sang, hanging up. I decided to roll down the windows and play my music loudly on the way home.

Mom wasn't home, but Char was. Her door was open, so I crept downstairs to look in on her. She was asleep, but her TV was still on. I picked up the remote and turned the TV off. The sudden volume change was deafening.

"Hey," Char said groggily. "I was watching that." She sat up in her bed with the rumpled, mismatched sheets and stretched. "I was asleep, wasn't I?"

"Yeah, you were out like a light." I smiled.

"How was work?" Char asked, yawning slightly.

"Busy. We freaks sure love coffee. I asked Dylan out."

"Did you? What did he say?"

"He said sure. We're going for coffee later."

"Before you go, make sure to come down here for a complete look evaluation." Char has given me look evaluations for every special event since she came back from Savannah College of Art and Design with a BA in Fashion. "I'm going back to sleep."

"'Night," I said, climbing the stairs back up to my room, where I hung out and watched YouTube videos until my phone started ringing. I nearly tackled my purse trying to answer my phone before the ringtone ended. "Hello?" I gasped.

"Hey, Phoebe," said Robbie. Damn! Wrong boy.

"Oh, hi, Robbie. What's up?"

"How was work? It sounded like you survived, at least."

"Yeah. It was busy, though. I met a lot of cool people, though, and made hella drinks. I even got a $5 tip for a $3.25 drink."

"How did you get _that_?"

"Dylan gave it to me. As a token of my appreciation, I asked him out." There was a pause. Is Robbie jealous? It's possible.

"Good for you."

"Do I detect some jealousy?"

"Maybe a little. I was calling to ask if you wanted to hang out."

"Damn! I'm sorry. Let's take a rain check on that one. I promise we'll hang out soon."

"We'll hook up." Hook up? What a weird choice of words. I mean, it has two very different meanings.

"'Kay. Talk to you later."

"Bye." He and I hung up and I sat gazing at my phone while I processed the possible meanings of 'hook up.' What does it mean, anyway? I know it can mean becoming someone's girlfriend, but other girls sometimes use it to mean having sex. I'm confused now. What does Robbie want from me?

As I wondered about this, my phone rang again. This time, it was Dylan. I took a deep breath. Here goes…


	7. Letdown

07: Letdown

ChocoLate is an actual coffee shop in Atlanta. There are two locations and both are great! Highly recommended.

"Hello?" I asked energetically.

"Hey, Phoebe, it's Dylan."

"Hi, Dylan. What's up?"

"Not too much. So, where do you want to go?"

"Well, it'd be kind of weird to go back to The Freak Show. Um, how's ChocoLate sound?"

"Which one?"

"Pardon?"

"Which ChocoLate? There are two."

"Um, the one by the school." That's kind of a weird question. The other ChocoLate is too far to be reasonable, unless you're catching a movie nearby and have some time to kill like Angie and I did once. Maybe Dylan lives over there, though. I don't know where he lives! Obviously, I know where Lauren lives…

"Yeah, yeah, that sounds fine." That's only a few minutes from my house, so it won't be hard to get to.

"Cool. How about we meet over there around 7."

"That sounds good to me." I smiled. "I'll see you there."

"See you then." We hung up in unison and I started my frantic search for something to wear, pawing through my clothes like my life was on the line before realizing just how silly I probably looked. What did I want to accomplish from this? I don't want to go absolutely boy-crazy. I've seen a lot of girls fall prey to boy-craziness and I don't want to follow in their footsteps because that's how I lost a lot of my old friends from middle school…

"Hey," Char said suddenly. I turned and saw her standing in the doorway, arms crossed, smiling slightly. "Need some advice?"

"Char, I don't even know what I want anymore," I declared. "A part of me wants to have one of those high school relationships where you and your boy walk the halls together and even the strangers in your classes are suddenly fawning over how cute you look with him. Another part of me fears falling into the abyss of boy-craziness." I sighed and moved onto my bed. "I just don't know what I want."

"You'll know," Char said with a sage nod.

"What?"

"You'll know. If you really want to be with this boy, you'll feel it. If you don't, you'll feel that. Don't write him off before you go for coffee. Besides, it would be mean to ditch him now." Char smiled. "Don't worry, Phoebe. That's the one thing you do—you worry so much." She started pawing through my clothes. "Here, I'll help you find something cool to wear." While she searched my closet for something suitable, I sat on my bed and stared at my fingernails, thinking that I _do_ just need to trust my instincts on this one. Do I really worry "so much," as Char put it?

"Thanks for helping me out, Char," I said meekly.

"Hey, it's part of the job description." She handed me a dark brown T-shirt with the cover art from Abbey Road on it. "This is cute. Where did you get it?"

"Target, $9.99," I replied.

"Well, if you're really not sure if you want anything to happen, just look normal. Don't tart yourself up. You're gorgeous the way you are and that's no lie." Char touched my shoulder. "Still, I wish you good luck."

I decided to follow Char's advice, putting on the Abbey Road shirt, a pair of my most comfortable jeans, and my normal sneakers. I did brush on a bit more eyeshadow than usual, though, but that was the only change I made. On the way out, Mom was coming back in, so I explained where I was going and she also wished me good luck. While I drove, I thought about what Char said and the dichotomy of what I _think_ I wanted. It made my head hurt, so I resolved to stop thinking about it, which is good because I soon had to concentrate on getting a parking space at ChocoLate. I ended up parking pretty far away and hoofing it over, which I didn't mind because it allowed more time for me to gather my thoughts. I noted Dylan's car parked closer in to the store.

A bell attached to the door jingled when I came inside and the two baristas on duty greeted me. Dylan was leaning up against a display case chock-full of coffee beans, messing around with his cell phone, and looked up when the bell jingled. I gave a friendly smile and noticed that he was also dressed casually. Maybe we were both expecting the same thing from this outing—nothing at all.

"Hi," I said sweetly. "Have you ordered yet?"

"No, I was waiting for you," he replied.

"Thanks!" I chirped. "Hm…" I craned my neck to get a good look at the menu, which was hanging above my line of sight. I know what drink I always drink, but it goes by a variety of names, depending on where you're buying it. I drink Frappuccinos, but I believe they're called frappes here. I shuffled up to the barista, remembering to treat her extra-nicely because I know what she deals with now.

"How can I help you?" she asked upon my approach.

"Hi, can I have a tall—sorry, _small_—caramel frappe, please?" Size names are different at different coffee places, too, which just makes it even more complicated. Hell, I can't even remember what we call a small or a tall or whatever.

"Sure!" The cheery barista rang up my order. I wonder what kind of system they use for ordering. "Are you two together?" she asked, gesturing towards Dylan.

"No—" I automatically began.

"Yes," Dylan declared. "I'll get this one," he told me as I took out my wallet. He brandished that blue credit card again. "I would like a small vanilla latte, please." This dude must drink those things like crazy. He's had two today.

"Okay…" The barista calculated the total as I looked at the pastry display case and naturally wondered if ChocoLate also had a Felicia. Can more than one person have the same power? Are there other people out there in this great big world that can heal other people? Surely there are.

I know. Don't call me Shirley.

We adjourned to the back area, full of comfy leather couches and loveseats, to wait for our drinks. The back area is more intimate because you can't see it from the entrance. There were some Emory students back there, busy typing away on their laptops or perusing their textbooks, but they were all silent. The blender crackled, undoubtedly smashing ice to make my drink with, as I seated myself in a loveseat and Dylan put himself directly across from me. When our drinks were up, Dylan went and retrieved them, which allowed me a few precious moments to try and figure out what was wrong with me.

Just a few days ago, I was practically drooling over the mere sight of Dylan. Something seems _off_ in me right now. Char told me not to worry about anything, so I shouldn't, but I keep coming back to this dilemma. Should I tell him anything? Should I let him take the wheel? At the same time, I have this bad feeling in my stomach, like maybe something is going wrong somewhere. Jesus, do I have Spidey-Sense or something? Or maybe I'm just getting my period.

No…I just finished that…

Dylan sat back down and handed me my drink, bringing me back to reality. I smiled, trying to conceal my worry using a poker face. I'm not sure how good I am at that, though, so I may have looked like a fool instead.

"Thanks," I said appreciatively, sucking down the first sip of my frappe. That one's always difficult to coerce out into the straw because the drink is just so darn thick. I bet I looked like a puckering fish. "Mm, this is good."

"Better or worse than The Freak Show?" Dylan asked.

"Well, that's a loaded question! Of course, the correct response is The Freak Show. I mean, I work for them, after all!" I laughed. "If I said anything to the contrary, I'm sure Lauren would hunt me down."

"Speaking of Lauren, how is she doing?"

"What do you mean? She's pretty cool."

"Um, I guess I mean finance-wise."

"She does sit in the back and do Excel spreadsheets for a while sometimes. I'm no good at finances, though, so I don't pay attention to it. I just make the drinks."

"Well, she's kind of in the hole, so she is reluctantly borrowing money from Maman until she can get back in the black. She and Maman had a falling-out when she decided to open The Freak Show instead of going into law or medicine."

"Jeez, I didn't even know that!"

"How could you expect to know? Lauren doesn't really talk about stuff like that. Running The Freak Show makes her happy, so she doesn't want to even give Thought 1 to unhappy things while she's there."

"I see. I'll try not to mention anything controversial around her. I want to be in her good graces." That's why I got there 10 minutes early. I decided to change the topic because I don't think there's anything else to add. "Um, did you hear about the vaccine?"

"The vaccine? You mean the cervical cancer one?"

"No, not that one." I think Mom's going to make me get that soon. It's three injections! Oh well, if it can prevent a certain kind of cancer, I'll do it. "I mean…" I leaned in a bit closer to secure some privacy, but thankfully the blender started whirring again. "The CDC's planning an injection to make gifted people like us, well, not gifted anymore."

"What?!" Dylan's eyes blazed like a fire.

"I know, right?" I leaned back in my chair. "Word on the Internet is that there'll be a huge, peaceful protest on December 6 at the CDC." I shrugged slightly. "I'm going. I don't care what happens. I won't stand idly by and watch this happen when they could be researching cures for other cancers. You're free to come if you want to. It might get pretty big, though. Gossip spreads like wildfire."

Dylan nodded, showing interest in the topic at hand, and took a sip of his drink.

We covered a wide range of topics in the approximately two hours it took to drain our drinks (in our defense, we were frequently kept from drinking because of too much chatting). I learned that we both went to the same 'geeky-kids' 4th-6th grade school, though we were in different homerooms. We discussed politics at great length. I asked about Canada, a country I've never seen before. He asked me about Angie because he said that we're pretty much inseparable. When our drinks were down to the dregs and I felt like I needed to get back home, I decided it was either now or never. I felt like my heart and stomach were both in chokeholds as I tried to spit the words out of my mouth.

"Hey, Dylan, um, I was, uh, wondering if, uh, you know, you, like, liked me or something." I paused and filled the air with nervous laughter. "Um, let me rephrase that. I've been—no, hold on. I've developed kind of a _thing_ for you. I'm wondering if you like me back." What the hell am I saying? I sound like a crazy person. There was a pause that clearly unnerved me.

"I'm sorry, Phoebe, but…" I'm sure Dylan was going to say some more stuff that might tear my fragile little heart, but right as he started, my phone rang. Nokia tune filled the air now.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry. I think I should at least see who's calling." I tore open my purse and fumbled around for my phone, finding it and glancing at the outer screen. "Mom cell" was calling. "This has to be important. Do you mind if I take the call?"

"No problem," Dylan said.

"Hello?" I asked as I opened my phone.

"Phoebe," Mom said frantically.

"Mom? What's up?"

"Phoebe, it's about Charlotte. I went out to Publix because the milk's gone over and when I came back, she was gone but her car is still here. I decided to just wait around for her—about twenty minutes or so—and after that, then I would call the police. But I didn't need to. The police found her wandering around Little Five Points and took her to Grady." My face drained of color and my heart sank like a ship.

"Grady?" I repeated.

"Grady. The psych ward, to be exact."

"Oh shit!"

"Phoebe!"

"Sorry, Mom. Where are you now?"

"Grady."

"I'll come down. Which way is the best way?"

"Take DeKalb Avenue until you pass over 75/85. You can't miss the building."

"Okay. I'll be down as soon as I can." I hung up my phone. "Oh shit, Dylan, I am so sorry, but I have to go. They found my sister wandering around the streets and took her down to Grady."

"Is she okay?"

"She's trying to quit cold turkey from four different substances."

"So she's not okay."

"You can say that. I'm really sorry, and thank you for the coffee, and it's okay if you don't like me back." I gathered up my purse and empty cup. "See you later." I hustled out of the store, throwing the cup away, and made a mad dash for my car. I leapt inside, sped out of the parking lot, and drove at least 50 MPH towards DeKalb Avenue before realizing the limit was 40. I don't want to get arrested.

At a red light near the East Lake MARTA station, I just broke the hell down. First of all, Char is definitely not okay. I don't have the faintest idea what she must be going through, what must have motivated her to get up and wander around Atlanta for a while. My eyes burned because of my mascara succumbing to the power of salty tears, but I didn't care. Second of all, I've just been rejected, denied, thrown to the curb, whatever you want to call it. The light changed, though, so I had to blink hurriedly and just keep on driving so as not to annoy the drivers behind me.

I breezed past Moreland Avenue and gave a quick glance down, immediately spotting Little Five Points. That's where the police found Char…I wonder what she said to them or what she did. What made them decide that the best course of action was to deliver her to Grady's psych ward? Isn't that on the 8th floor? I remember reading the Blotter in _Creative Loafing_ and sometimes reading about people who were sent to the 8th floor at Grady, mostly for displaying crazy behavior like screaming about Jesus or whatever. It's always mentioned as a dessert to follow the entrée of craziness. Now Char's going there. Oh God. It's too hard for me to think about.

As I pulled into the parking deck closest to Grady and balked at the high prices, I realized just how close I was to the GSU Lofts. Maybe I'll give Angie and Sharmila calls to update them on Char's condition. No, that's not a maybe. That's a definitely. I left my car, making sure the doors were locked, and ran across the street to the hospital, where I soon found Mom waiting for me.

"Mom," I gasped as I came to a stop in front of her. "How is she?"

"Well, she's up on the 8th floor. Now that you're here, we're going to go see her." Mom led me towards a bank of elevators. "It's not good, though, Phoebe. She's suffering a lot. Trying to quit just one substance cold turkey is hard enough. It's nearly impossible when it's four different substances." I could see the hurt, the worry, the terror in her eyes and it caused me to start crying again. An elevator soon came and we got on. I jabbed the 8 button and then the Close Doors button because I didn't want anyone else intruding on this moment.

"I should have just healed her," I declared when the doors shut. "This is my fault."

"No, honey, don't say that. Charlotte's condition is incredibly complex and requires the care of professionals. Do you even know the full extent of your powers?" I'm pretty sure she already knew the answer to that, but I shook my head no anyway. "Exactly. What if you can't heal her and she relapses? She could be at risk of terrible, terrible things, like grand mal seizures or heart attacks or even death. I know you love her and care about her, but if you were to just keep healing her over and over again…" The elevator chimed. "That'd be like putting a band-aid on a gunshot wound."

You can feel just how dreary the 8th floor is when you get off the elevator. The psych ward is locked out, so we had to fetch a nurse to get us through the magnetized doors and into the actual ward. I think that "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here" should have been etched above the magnetized doors. As soon as I got inside, I heard a blood-curdling scream from somewhere down the hall, followed by three nurses rushing to the scream's source.

We stopped in front of Charlotte's room, 805, and the nurse ushered us inside. Char had obviously been heavily sedated, because she was just lying in her bed, blankly staring at the TV. The 11 o'clock news was showing. Monica Kaufman has some crazy hair.

"Char?" I asked softly. "Char?" She looked over at me.

"Feebs," she said weakly.

"CHAR!!" I screamed, running to her side. "I'm so sorry! It's my fault! I want to fix it!" I grabbed her left arm and squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the familiar tingle of healing but never feeling it. "What the? Why can't I heal?"

"Maybe…" Char began. "It's too severe."

"Didn't I tell you that?" Mom asked. "Charlotte, honey. How are you feeling?"

"Like Jell-o," Char responded.

"Jell-o?" Mom asked.

"Jell-o. They have me so sedated that I can barely feel my limbs." Char sighed.

"Why were you wandering around L5P?" I wondered aloud.

"I don't know. Right after you left, Feebs, I suddenly felt the urge to move. I tried just doing little dances in my room, but they didn't satisfy me. I decided to take a walk around the neighborhood and get some fresh air, but that soon turned into walking down the street, then the next thing I knew, I was near The Vortex. The po-po picked me up soon afterwards and brought me right over here because they thought I was insane." She chuckled. "Can you believe it? Me, insane. But now they know I'm just an addict, not a basket case."

"What's going to happen now?" I asked desperately.

"Uugh," Char began, attempting to shift herself in her bed. "They're recommending residential rehabilitation."

"Residential treatment?" Mom asked in slight disbelief.

"Rehab?" I asked in slight disbelief.

"That's what Doctor What's-His-Face recommended," Char explained. The door opened again and Doctor What's-His-Face entered. He was really called Dr. Christian Robertson (I read the embroidery on his white doctor coat) and bore a striking resemblance to Dr. Cox on Scrubs, so I briefly imagined him whistling as he entered, making sarcastic statements left and right, and calling JD a random girl's name every time they saw each other.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Robertson," he announced in a very un-Dr. Cox voice. He started talking to Mom about Char and what he recommended while I sat by Char's bedside, holding her hand. She looked wan.

"How did your date go?" Char asked with great effort.

"Badly," I replied. "He doesn't like me back."

"Ain't that a b," Char replied wearily, shaking her head. I nodded silently and began crying again, this time with more force and more tears, until I swear my tear ducts were depleted.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." That was my mantra for the night.


	8. Resurgens

08: Resurgens

Just FYI, "Resurgens" is the motto of the city of Atlanta. I do believe it has something to do with Atlanta's Civil War-era history (the city logo includes a phoenix).

I awoke the next morning and helped Char packed her things. She was shipping off to some rehab facility called Something Plantation (no, the actual name isn't Something Plantation; I just can't remember the first part) in Marietta. Something Plantation was the closest place that had what Char needed and was in our insurance network. There are a bunch of rehab places right here in Atlanta, inside the Perimeter, but our piece of shit HMO won't pay for Char to stay in one of them.

Even though she was going off to rehab, she still wanted to look fashionable; she packed a lot of really cute stuff, though she left all of her real designer stuff behind.

"Don't want anyone to steal it," she explained, packing only the fake stuff we bought off the streets at Five Points one fine Saturday. Heck, I still use the fake Prada purse I bought that day. It's getting a bit dirty, though. It may be time for another fake Prada purse.

"I'm going to miss you," I declared.

"I know that," Char said, putting a hairbrush in her giant red trunk. "And I you. But Marietta is only about half an hour away. They'll let me have my cell phone, too, and if I behave well, I get Internet privileges after a week. It could be much worse."

She's right. It could be worse, but I'm having trouble seeing the forest through the trees.

Mom drove us all up there with Char in the front seat and me in the back, staring out the window as we blazed down I-75. When you leave the Perimeter, the scenery changes. All you see are strip malls and giant developments of cookie-cutter houses. I would rather live in a shoebox on Memorial Drive than ever surrender to a house in a development with some bullshit name like Whispering Deer Grove or whatever dumb name the developer gave it after smoking a little too much weed.

The ride was unusually quiet. I guess I fell asleep at one point because I don't remember a big stretch of the ride. All I remember is waking up and there was Peaceful Plantation. Oh, _that's_ the name. It sure looked like its name. In fact, it was a big whitewashed plantation house, surrounded by what would undoubtedly be giant, lush dogwood trees in springtime. It was also quiet, tucked just far enough away from Whatever Mill Road that you couldn't hear the SUVs and minivans roll by. All roads outside the Perimeter seem to have names including the words Mill or Bridge, so it's hard to tell them apart. I don't even know where we are right now in relation to Decatur.

I helped carry the trunk inside and moved it into Char's new room, number 7, while Mom stayed behind with Char to get her all checked in. Compared to the basement Char was used to, this room was going to be a huge culture shock. It was tiny, smaller than Sharmila's room over at the Lofts, and contained pretty much nothing. There was a tiny window with a view of a nice garden, a twin-sized bed (glad we bought twin-size sheets beforehand) with a nightstand, a TV mounted to the wall, a big wooden wardrobe, a small chest of drawers, and a door to the bathroom.

Out of curiosity, I peeked inside the bathroom and noticed a door on the other side. Ah, so Char will have to share a bathroom. This whole bare-bones, plain-vanilla décor and the shared bathroom thing is all very collegiate. Maybe it would remind Char of her dorms at SCAD. If I remember correctly, she lived in Dyson House, which was just a refurbished hotel.

Good times.

I cracked open the trunk and began sorting things out on her bare bed, placing similar clothes in neat piles and hunting for the bounty of hangers that was packed in this big old thing somewhere. As I pawed around for hangers, my hand brushed up against something cool and smooth. Curiosity got the best of me and I pulled out the cool, smooth thing, revealing an elegantly-framed picture from when we went on our trip to Las Vegas with Angie.

All four of us were walking down the Strip when we saw an Elvis impersonator chilling out in a parking lot. He offered a photo opportunity and didn't charge us anything, though we gave him some money anyway. In this shot, the desert wind is blowing in our faces, artfully tousling our hair, but we don't give a shit. All four of us are laughing, making 'guns' out of our hands in an attempt to emulate Elvis. It was a great trip.

I carefully put the photo on the nightstand and went back to my hanger hunt, finally finding them all scrunched up in the corner. They clattered terribly when I brought them out, but I didn't care, and I began to hang Char's clothes up in the closet. When that was done, I moved on to her books, which I stacked atop the chest of drawers according to size.

"Hey," Char suddenly said, appearing in the doorway. "I'll take over from here."

"So, you're all checked in?" I asked. Char nodded silently. "How long do they think you'll need to stay here?"

"Well, they're not sure yet. They'll need to observe me for a while—my mannerisms, physical health, shit like that—before figuring out just the amount of time I'll have to be here. Apparently, the HMO will pay for this no matter how long it takes, so I can actually get clean instead of being prematurely kicked out and going right back to the bad stuff." She sighed. "Jeez, isn't this a nice, cheerful room?"

"I was just thinking that it reminded me of Dyson House," I commented with a giggle.

"Ah, Dyson House. The best way to bring color to that room was through accessorizing. I guess that's what I'll have to do here." Char grinned and gave a thumbs-up.

"You're sharing a bathroom with the person next door," I said, jerking my thumb towards the bathroom.

"That is _so_ Dyson House," Char remarked. "Wanna help me make the bed? You know I'm terrible at it." That's true, but so am I, so I don't know if I can be of any help. I nodded, though, because the more time I spend with Char, the better. "Cool."

Together we unfurled the fitted and the non-fitted sheets, both a spicy red color, and got them onto the bed. Next came the comforter, which was creamy white with a pattern of red and white five-petal flowers. Finally, we placed Char's two pillows at the head of the bed and backed up to admire our handiwork.

"Not bad," Char remarked. "Not bad at all. Hey, maybe we should go see who my bathroom buddy is." She walked into the tiny bathroom and knocked on the other door. "Hello!" she said loudly. "I'm Charlotte! I'm your new bathroom buddy! May I come in?" We waited a few seconds, but then the doorknob turned and the door opened just a crack.

"What?" asked a grumpy, accented female voice from the other side.

"I'm your new bathroom buddy," Char explained again. "I'm Charlotte Reid."

"What are you here for?" asked the voice as I tried to pinpoint the accent's origin. I'm usually pretty good at doing this—I go to Buford Highway Farmer's Market a lot—but I'm not figuring it out so well today.

"What do you mean?" Char asked.

"What do you do?"

"Oh, um, I used to smoke, and drink, and do coke, and smoke weed." Char counted these things off on her fingers.

"Ah. I see. I'm here for coke, too."

"May I come in?"

"Sure!"

"May I bring my sister in, too?"

"She staying here, too?"

"No, she's not."

"Is she cool?"

"Cool as a frozen cucumber."

"Sounds good. Come in." Char pushed open the door to a room that was predominantly purple. I saw a little purple rug, a purple comforter, purple pillows, a purple alarm clock, and purple curtains. On the purple bed, reading a book with a purple cover, was a young woman clad in purple pajamas with the most amazing skin tone ever. It was darker than mine (but everyone is darker than me, except maybe for Conan O'Brien), but not as dark as Feli's or Sharmila's. I guess it was a sort of caramel color.

She glanced up from her purple book, which I instantly recognized as a hardcover copy of _Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban_ without its dust jacket, and smiled at us. She had big brown eyes that were sort of almond-shaped, but not completely, and long, shaggy black hair.

"Hi!" Char said sweetly.

"Hi!" said the woman, folding the top corner of her page over. "I'm Mimi Agbayani." She shook Char's hand and I noticed that her fingernails were painted…you guessed it…purple. Her name's Mimi, like that girl from Rent, and she kind of looks like her too. Well, except Rent Mimi was a heroin addict…and HIV-positive…and a stripper…Where's that last name from?

"I like your name," I suddenly blurted out. "Where's the last name from?"

"Oh, it's Filipino. I'm part Filipina and part Australian," Mimi explained proudly.

"You sure do like purple, don't you?" Char commented.

"Yes! It's my power color," Mimi said with a big grin. This girl is friendly once you get past the initial inquisition. "I think yours is red."

"Is that just because of my hair?" Char asked, running a hand through it.

"Well, that's part of it." Mimi stood up. "Can I see your room?"

"I'm not done unpacking yet," Char said.

"Doesn't matter. Maybe I can help you out." She turned to me. "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't ask your name."

"It's Phoebe," I said, smiling, as I followed the two back into Char's room.

"Yes, I knew it. Your power color is most definitely red, honey," Mimi declared as soon as she got a good look at the room. "So, how old are you?"

"I'm 23," Char responded. "You?"

"19, but people say I look 16. I'm old for my age," Mimi said with a shrug. "They wanted to put me in the juvenile ward when they first saw me. They didn't believe me when I put down my real birthday, so I had to show them my driver's license." She snorted in half-disgust. "Wow, you have some really pretty clothes!"

"Thanks! I majored in fashion," Char said proudly.

"Cool! When I get out of here, I'm going to be a social worker," Mimi said. "I wanted to do business, but now my whole perspective's changed."

"Phoebe!" Mom's voice suddenly called from down the hall.

"You're pretty much allowed to wear whatever you want around here," Mimi explained to Char. "They don't care if you just wear pajamas all the time. There are no cute guys here, either, so you don't have to look pretty if you don't want to."

"Thanks for the advice."

"Yeah, Mom?" I called back.

"There you are!" Mom stepped into room 7. "Hi!" she said to Mimi.

"Oh, hello, ma'am," Mimi said politely.

"I'm Sandra Reid, Charlotte and Phoebe's mom."

"It's good to meet you. I'm Mimi Agbayani." The two shook hands. "Charlotte and I are gonna share a bathroom."

"How nice for you two! Look at that, Charlotte, you've already made a friend," Mom said happily. "Phoebe, we should be getting home."

"Okay, Mom," I said sadly. "Well, Char, I have your cell phone number and you said I can e-mail you in a week, right?"

"Oh yes, a week," Mimi said with a nod.

"I'll try to visit whenever I can," I promised Char. "I promise."

"I know." Char hugged me first, then Mom, before backing up a few steps until she was back at Mimi's side.

"I'll watch over her, Mrs. Reid," Mimi said. I noticed Mom didn't correct her—she's a Ms. now, not a Mrs., and hasn't been for about half a decade. Maybe Mimi's accent just made it hard for Mom to understand what she was saying.

"You do that," Mom said sweetly, starting to lead me out into the hallway.

"'Bye, Char!"

"Keep it real, Feebs!"

With that, we left Char behind at Peaceful Plantation. However, for some reason—or combination of reasons—I didn't feel sad. Maybe it was the fact that it seemed so similar to when we left Char at SCAD (but this wasn't four hours away from home like Savannah was), or Mimi's presence, or the security in knowing that Char was on the path to being okay again. Even though I still feel kind of bad that I couldn't make Char better, I can take comfort in knowing that there are people who can.

Later on that day, when I was going down DeKalb Avenue on my way to work, I made it a point to listen to "Shiny Happy People". You know, that song by REM that they did with the B-52s. It's an unrelentingly happy song. I remember it from Fahrenheit 911. Anyway, it put me in a good mood.

"Hi, Lauren!" I shouted when I entered, clocking in and donning an apron.

"Hi, Phoebe!" Lauren shouted back from her office. "How did things go with Dylan?" I wandered into her office, where she was once again staring at an Excel spreadsheet, because I didn't feel like shouting my answer.

"Well, he rejected me," I said, shrugging.

"Sonofabitch," Lauren muttered, following with what were probably a few choice words in French. "That little man-ho. Did you get a reason why?"

"He was probably going to say something, but at that moment, my mom called and said they found my sister wandering around in Little Five Points, thought she was crazy, and took her down to Grady."

"Is she okay?"

"She's fine now. She just went off to Peaceful Plantation this morning."

"Peaceful Plantation? I'm not sure I'm familiar with that place."

"It's a rehab facility in Marietta. My sister needs some help."

"Bless her heart."

"She'll be fine."

"Oh, we got a new kid today."

"Really? What's her name?"

"_His_ name is Todd. Poor kid's a runaway. He said that when he told his parents about his ability, they straight-up threw him out on the street."

"Holy crap! How old is he?"

"He's fifteen."

"Fifteen?! God damn! He's a young 'in!"

"Ssssh!" Lauren hissed. "He's working out there right now. He promised he'll work all day, even in the afternoons after school, and literally crash on my couch at night. It's so sad, Phoebe. I mean, nobody's going to rent an apartment—or even a shoebox—to a fifteen-year-old. You can't get hotel rooms in your name until you're eighteen. He said he doesn't have any little friends at school he can stay with. He was just wandering around and saw this place, identified with the sign, and came right in." She looked down and shook her head slowly. "Honestly, why would someone _do_ that to their kid? Maybe you should go introduce yourself."

"Um, sure, I'll do that." I nodded and timidly stepped into the main area of the shop. In front of the cappuccino machine, cursing because the "damn thing won't turn the fuck on", stood Todd. He was fairly short, with dyed black hair and thick rings of eyeliner around his light blue eyes. He, like me, was pale, and wore a black T-shirt, baggy black bondage pants, and blood red Doc Martens. Jeez, this kid sure is dressing punk.

"Piece of shit," he muttered to the machine.

"Here, let me," I offered, coming up to his side. "Oh, it's not plugged in." I had to kneel down and manually plug the cappuccino machine into the wall. When I got back up, I smiled at Todd, who pressed his lips into a line in response. "There. Try whatever you were doing again." He nodded silently and flipped the on-off switch. He was wearing chipping black nail polish.

"Thanks," he muttered.

"I'm Phoebe," I said sweetly, going to start up some of the other machines.

"Todd."

"Nice to meet you, Todd. Lauren told me your story."

"Cool."

"I'm curious. What's your power?"

"It's really cool. Look." I turned around to look at Todd as he shut his eyes tightly. Just a moment later, he morphed into a glossy black crow.

"Sweet!" I exclaimed. The crow turned back into Todd.

"What can you do?" he asked.

"I heal people," I said, bragging just a bit. My eye was suddenly drawn to his left wrist, which was riddled with row upon row of tiny red lines. Jesus. This kid's a cutter.

"You heal people."

"Yeah."

"I see you looking at my wrist."

"Well, that looks like it needs healing."

"Maybe."

"Do you want me to?"

"Whatever."

I smiled and went over to him, taking his hand in mine. I was relieved to feel the tingle of healing again after what happened with Char and everything. Todd and I both watched in amazement as the scars disappeared from his arm, as if they were simply being erased like the wrong bubble from an SAT answer sheet.

"Cool," Todd said quietly. "Thanks."

"You're welcome. Do you know much about coffee?"

"I know how to drink it. Aside from that, I don't know much." He shrugged and I chuckled.

"Tell you what, Todd. I'll take you under my wing, even though you're the one with the wings. You can be my protégée. I'll teach you a thing or two about the art of coffee. Feli can teach you some stuff about pastries. She'll be here soon. Her power is _awesome_. Ask her to show it to you when she gets here."

"Thanks," Todd said quietly. He's not one for speaking loudly. He's mad shy, too; he barely looks me in the eyes, preferring to stare at his boots. "You're being nice to me. Why?"

"Why? Because that's how I am."

I think I saw him crack a smile.


	9. Togetherness

09: Togetherness

All of the bands Todd talks about are J-rock. I used to like J-rock a lot, but I don't really anymore. I'm more into J-pop now. Still, I can recommend these groups.

"So, let me see if I have all of this straight. You want me to go home, fire up LimeWire, and download songs from which bands?"

"Dir en grey. Gazette. Hide. Malice Mizer. Moi dix Mois. Nightmare. Pierrot. Plastic Tree. Psycho le Cemu. X Japan."

"Okay, I think I got all of those."

Todd and I were sitting outside The Freak Show, enjoying our lunch break (with hot food provided by Feli) together. Since we met by chance, we've become friends. When he learned by pure chance that I liked Japanese music, he immediately thought I was just about the coolest person to ever walk the Earth.

I gave him a ride to a thrift store once so he could buy some clothes. He didn't have too many, he explained, and was too afraid to try and go back "home" to get any. While I drove, I had a mix CD on and some rock-ish Ayumi Hamasaki songs came on. He was promptly amazed, but he was surprised that I didn't listen to actual rock bands and promised to recommend some to me.

On that November day, just before Thanksgiving, he made good on his promise.

"You'll really like this stuff, trust me."

"I trust you. You wouldn't like my stuff too much, though."

"Why not?"

"It's pop of the most sugary variety."

"Ugh, you're right."

"It makes me happy to listen to, though." I paused. "You know, Todd, Thanksgiving is soon."

"Don't remind me."

"Hard to talk about?"

"So much. The holidays are all about family and shit, but when your family's thrown you out, then what do you do?"

"Then your friend invites you over."

He looked at me and his eyes lit up.

"You mean it?"

"Totally. Our Thanksgiving is really chill, though. It's just my mom, my sister, and me, not a big crowd of raucous relatives. But we'd be happy to have you there." A chilly wind blew, making me shiver and huddle for warmth.

"Thanks, Phoebe."

---

"The poor kid doesn't have anywhere else to go!"

"The poor kid has a _thing_ for you, Phoebe."

Due to the Thanksgiving holiday, our last day of school was Tuesday. Angie and I were at our lockers, gathering whatever materials we thought we would need over the break.

"Bitch, please. He's just being friendly. I mean, _he looks up to me_. Do you know how _weird_ that is?" I stuffed my AP English book into my backpack and shut my locker.

"He does?" Angie asked, stuffing her AP English book into her backpack and shutting her locker. She walked over to my side and we took off down the hallway together, dodging any obstacles that stood in our way.

"Um, yeah. Besides, I wouldn't go out with him anyway. That's, like, statutory."

"_You_ were statutory with Robbie for a while."

"I would appreciate it if you didn't dig the skeletons out of my closet right now, Angie."

"Well, you were."

"YES, I was. But I won't do that anymore. I don't even like Todd in that way."

"That's just going to shatter his little soul."

"Okay, that's it, you're walking home."

"Aw, c'mon. I was just playin'."

"Well, you know what they say about not biting the hand that feeds you. Or, in this case, the hand that drives you."

"Okay, _my friend_. I won't do it again."

"What language was that?"

"French." Ugh, that was a trigger word now.

Angie was, of course, completely up to date on the crazy shambles known as my love life. As we walked past Dylan's 350Z, I kept my eyes pointed straight ahead, not wanting to even catch his eye. I won't lie. Things are kind of weird between us. I mean, I totally respect his choice in respect to, well, me, but for some reason, I just can't seem to put him on my 'friends' list.

Then, there's the fact that Robbie's pretty much dropped out of my life. Without Char around, the band guys haven't come around—not even once—and that's weird, too. Put all this together with the Todd Situation and I have one hilariously dysfunctional love life that results in my not being with an overall good guy, but little by little, I'm recognizing that a woman doesn't need to be with a man all the time to feel good about herself. Maybe I just need to take a hiatus from guys until I get to GSU.

Hm, that sounds like a good idea. I should run it by Angie.

"I'm going to take a hiatus from guys until I get to GSU," I declared when we got in my car.

"Sounds like a plan." I kind of knew she would be supportive. As soon as I started the car, my Todd Mix started playing. I followed his advice and downloaded choice songs by the groups he recommended to me. While I drove, Angie sat with her eyes closed, translating the songs for my benefit. The song that played throughout most of the fairly short trip was about clouds or something. I was kind of busy concentrating on the road and didn't catch a lot of the lyrics.

"He's got a thing for you!" Angie barked as she got out of my car. "You better bring him down lightly, Feebs. He doesn't sound entirely…_stable_, if you get my drift."

"I'll stabilize you!" I faux-threatened in classic Homer Simpson style. "Holla at me if you need an escape from your Turkey Day stuff." Angie comes from a large family and her relatives all infiltrate her house on Thanksgiving. I've seen the resulting chaos in her house. It's terrifying. Generally, she uses the day after to hide out at my house and watch movies together. We tend to avoid going to pretty much any malls or stores.

I returned home, pretty tired and lugging my heavy backpack, which made me wobble awkwardly. Mom wasn't home yet; then again, she's never home this early. That reminds me, the revolution that that Mohinder guy was talking about is coming up soon…as is my birthday…

I stood on my doorstep, trying to get out my house key, when I thought I felt some strange presence behind me. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as I tucked my car key between my index and middle fingers, just like my slightly crazy driver's ed teacher taught me to do. At the very least, it could serve as something to poke a wannabe attacker in the eye with, a diversion as you ran like hell or got into your car and drove away like hell. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, I whirled around, ready to poke the hell out of some eyes, and saw Todd standing there, a black backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Jesus!" I screamed. "You scared me!"

"Sorry," he muttered.

"Oh my God," I gasped, holding my left hand to my heart. "I gotta get my heart to slow down. You _scared_ me," I repeated for sheer emphasis. "Hi. I thought you were coming tomorrow."

"I was. But I thought maybe you'd let me stay here tonight, too."

"Well, why not? My sister Charlotte's bedroom downstairs will be free tonight and tomorrow night. She comes on Thanksgiving, is gonna stay the night, goes out shopping on Friday and leaves Friday night." I opened the front door wide and ushered Todd inside. "But it's a really girly room. I mean, you probably won't like it."

"Does it have a bed?"

"Yes."

"Then I'll like it."

I smiled slightly and shed my backpack, placing it in one of the living room chairs.

"You're not a difficult guest," I joked. "You hungry?"

Ten minutes later, after Todd had raided our refrigerator, freezer, and pantry, we sat in adjacent chairs and he watched Maury as I tried to do some of my AP homework.

"So, where do you go to school?" I wondered midway through my work.

"Douglass," he responded, gnawing on an ice cream sandwich.

"Hmm," I said, showing interest. I didn't know much about Douglass—it's in Atlanta Public Schools, whereas Druid Hills is in DeKalb County—but the way he said it seemed to denote that he didn't really like the place.

"You?"

"Druid Hills," I said, pointing in the general direction of the school. "You like Douglass?"

Todd laughed so hard that he nearly choked.

"I guess not. Yeah, there's not a lot to like about the whole high school experience. When I look back on it now, I realize just how awesome college is going to be by comparison. Why am I talking like that? I'm not even a second-semester senior yet."

"Is anything different about senior year?"

"A bit. I mean, you can see a drop-off in the work quality amongst many of your peers. That's senioritis, of course. But then there's the upside to it all. I mean, you're pretty much out the door and off to college or whatever, so the year seems that much better." I smiled into my AP English book.

"Freshman year is like the opposite," he stated right as I was drinking some water. The huge difference between us made me nearly choke and I sputtered and coughed trying to get that water down my gullet. Oh my God. This boy is _fifteen_. He's a _freshman_. He is in the class of _two thousand and ten_.

Wow. Way to make a girl feel like an old fart.

"Is it?" I asked casually.

"Well, I'm just getting into high school and all of the stupidity that goes with it, so it's like two sides of a coin. You're going out the door. I'm just going in." It's odd, but I could sense the crushing hopelessness in his voice and mannerisms. The very last thing he needs right now is for his parents, who he thought he could always count on, to ditch him. I wanted to say that to him. I wanted to try and make everything better. But I was too afraid that I might say the wrong thing, so I just drank some more water.

---

When Mom got home, exhausted after a long day of writing out the effects of anthrax on the lungs and all that other stuff she does that brings home the bacon, she was a bit confused about Todd at first. She also thought he wasn't coming over today and fretted about the state of the house, saying that it was so dirty, so dirty. But when Todd said any house was better than what he had right now, which was no house, she nodded with her upper lip sucked into her mouth.

That means she's trying not to cry.

Mom didn't feel much like cooking, so we ordered Chinese and ate a big feast, boxing the rest of it up and throwing it into the refrigerator for tomorrow. Afterwards, she played Diamond Mine on her CDC-issued laptop while Todd and I watched the 8:00 rerun of The Daily Show. I swear that, during the funniest part of the show (the top parts, not the guest part), I felt Todd's hand brush against mine while I laughed like a buffoon at the tart wit of Jon Stewart. Maybe I was just imagining things.

---

"Well, the bed's downstairs. Sometimes it gets a little chilly at night. If it does, use the little white heater near the bed. Don't put it on high unless you want the house to catch fire. Just low or medium should do, especially when you add in the sheets and all of that. Char had a TV in here, but she took it with her, so if you want to watch TV in the night, you have to go back to the living room. There's a bathroom down here. Occasionally, the pipes may make a funny noise. This house is old, as are the pipes. Pay no attention to the noise. Anything else you want to know?"

Todd and I walked down the creaky stairs to the basement together and I rubbed my arms when I sensed the change in temperature. Char left her room pretty messy (she's left-handed, so she doesn't really have a concept of cleanliness), which may or may not have surprised Todd. I can't really tell.

"Um, this will sound weird."

Oh no. Is he going to kiss me?

"What?"

"Do you have…any makeup remover?"

"Oh, yeah! I think I have some upstairs. Just hang on a second." Well, that makes sense. He's always painting on that eyeliner like a geisha does her going-out face, so surely he wants to remove it when the day is done. He probably bummed off of Lauren's remover and his mother's or sister's before that.

I went into my bathroom, retrieved my makeup remover and a cotton pad, and went back downstairs. Right as I ascended the stairs to the point where I could see part of the basement, I caught a glimpse of Todd as he switched from normal shirt to sleep shirt. He's pale and lanky, but in a way, that's endearing. I don't like the oiled-up muscle freaks that I see on the cover of fitness magazines when I'm in the checkout line at Publix, buying some Ben and Jerry's.

"Hey," I said. "Got the remover."

"Thanks." He took the materials from me and smiled slightly.

"Well, look at that! A smile erupts on his face," I said hyperbolically. "Call CNN!" He blushed bright pink. "And the blood seems to be moving towards equidistant circles in his face, otherwise known as 'cheeks'! My goodness! What else is this young man capable of?"

Whoops! That was the wrong question to ask because it enabled him. He took the opportunity to lean in and kiss me. This is exactly what I feared earlier—the sum of all fears, maybe, except without all the missing nukes and Morgan Freeman. Was Morgan Freeman in that movie? Why am I thinking of Morgan Freeman right now?

Hm. Todd's a little sloppy. Maybe if I angle his head this way a bit…Mm. Perfect. Oh God, am I _enjoying_ this? First it was Robbie, then Todd. I'm either being robbed or robbing the cradle. But for some reason, I can't seem to let go.

He carefully brought us down onto Char's bed, wrapped his arms around my waist, and pulled me in closer to him. When will he need to breathe? I feel a sudden need to come up for air, like I've been swimming for too long.

I suddenly realized that my hands were free and waving around like flags in the wind until now, so I used them to gently push away and take in a giant, deep breath. Todd took a breath too and we stared at each other for a straight minute or so in complete silence with only the sound of the heater whirring in the background as accompaniment.

"That was my first," Todd bashfully explained to me. "How was it for you?"

"Hm, it was a bit sloppy at first," I said honestly. "But then when I moved your head a bit, it was better. Try to strike a good balance between open and closed mouth so as to avoid dribbling. Drool is not sexy. Here. Open your mouth just a tiny bit. Watch me." I moved my lips apart just a bit and watched Todd copy me. "Good!"

"Can we try it again?"

I let him try it again. He was better that time, but he forgot about his hands.

"Remember that you have hands. Now, don't get too grope-y because that's not cool, but there are a few good places to rest those hands. First, you can put them in my hair. Touching or stroking the hair is a nice bonus. Second, you could just lazily throw them over my shoulders. That's fine, too. Third is the waist method, which you did before. That's nice as well. Let's give it another shot. Choose one of the other two methods this time."

This time, he threw his hands over my shoulders, but one of them crept up into my hair anyway and it felt amazing.

"I really like this," he whispered.

"You're getting to be pretty good at it," I replied. "But Todd, I have to tell you that I don't think it would work between us. I mean, there's a nearly three-year age difference between us. On December 4th, I'm going to be 18, and therefore an adult. We're far apart. Isn't there some sweet girl your age at Douglass?"

"No."

"Oh…um…I'm…I feel so bad, I…" Why can't I talk correctly right now?! "God, I'm sorry, Todd. I mean, you probably got your hopes up and everything…"

"It's okay."

"It is?"

"Yeah. It's okay. Thanks for teaching me how to kiss."

"You're welcome." I gave him one last hug before going back upstairs and, when I was ascending the stairs, I swear I could hear strange sniffling sounds coming from downstairs.

The next morning, Todd was gone. The bed was re-made, the heater unplugged, and the makeup remover perched on Char's sink. On the bed was a little note for me.

"I think I was falling in love with you," it read in hurried handwriting. I read the note, re-read the note, and when I started to cry, my tears dampened the note.


	10. Reunited

10: Reunited

Special thanks to Bob the Robot, my most faithful reviewer. This should go without saying, but the mentions of movies/anime in here belong to their original owners, etc. I respect Judd Apatow for making The 40-Year-Old Virgin and Hideaki Anno for making Evangelion, so I kinda don't want to be sued by either… 

I don't know where Todd went that day. I called Lauren and she said she hadn't seen him. I thought of calling the police, but I realized I didn't even know his last name and gave up on that. All I can hope is that he's found a safe place to stay. Maybe, in the spirit of the holidays, his parents found it in their hearts to take him back in. Or maybe he's sleeping in Little Five Points, begging passersby for food and change. Honestly, I just don't know. I can't help but feel a great deal of responsibility for his sudden departure, though.

Not to sound ridiculously self-absorbed or anything, but having Char come back for Thanksgiving really helped me out. Though Mom was surprised that she no longer had to cook for four, she still whipped up a pretty impressive spread. There was the requisite turkey, cornbread stuffing, stack of hot dinner rolls, that green bean casserole with the little onions on top, sweet potatoes with marshmallows, and pumpkin pie for dessert. We ate our fill, ate some more after that, and went our own ways for the night. I decided to hang out downstairs with Char for a while and maybe even tell her about what went on in her bed.

Actually, _on_ her bed.

"I feel like a funny movie," Char declared. "How about The 40-Year-Old Virgin?" There was a quick pause as she glanced at her barren DVD tower and realized she didn't have it. "Oh shit, I took that to Peaceful Plantation. Do you have your copy?"

"Do I?!" I exclaimed happily, running upstairs and retrieving it. The 40-Year-Old Virgin is, without a doubt, one of my favorite movies. Watching it always picks me up, so surely it'll do the job when the guilt about Todd is weighing down on me.

Sometime after the free clinic scene ("Is it true that if you don't use it, you lose it?") but before the end of the movie, I fell asleep. I awoke to "Age of Aquarius," that crazy dancing-and-singing bit at the end. Every other light in the room was off, so the slightly blue tinge of the glowing TV screen was all I could really see.

"Hey," I said as the characters on-screen danced crazily. "I made out with a 15-year-old guy on this bed."

"And you didn't tell me this _why_?" Char asked.

"Eh, no reason, really. Just didn't come up in conversation."

"Was he cute?"

"Kind of. He was really punk in the way that only a 15-year-old can be."

"That is to say a ton of black stuff, right?"

"Correctamundo. But then I realized he wanted more than I wanted, so I had to let him go, and he flew away the next day."

"Ain't that a b. Wait. He flew away? Like, literally?"

"Like, literally. That's his power."

"Speaking of powers, I found something that I can do."

"What's that?"

She silently turned her glance towards her suitcase. As "Let the Sunshine In" started on the TV, ushering in the end credits, the suitcase began to hover in midair.

"Cool."

"So maybe I'm like you now."

"Sure seems that way."

"Hey, tomorrow I'm going to go buy you your birthday and Christmas presents just in case I can't come around for Christmas. You can't come along, though, or else you'd see the presents beforehand."

"You know I hate Lenox Square on Black Friday anyway. Why _do_ you like it so much there?" I went once, just out of curiosity, when Charlotte was 18 and I was 13. It was the most terrifying experience of my life. People were everywhere and still exhibited the idiotic, "I-am-the-only-person-who-matters" behavior of normal days at the mall. You know what I mean. Coming to a dead halt at the top of the escalator, standing in the middle of the corridors trying to remember something, meticulously counting out change even though a line of cranky people was snaking around the store, and all those other actions that make me hate shopping sometimes.

Plus, I think some guy felt me up when we were trying to squeeze past a throng of people and get to Claire's. I still haven't forgotten that.

"The deals are to die for and maybe being in that giant crowd makes me feel more…alive."

"That's weird."

"You're weird."

"Speaking of weird, the guys haven't been around lately."

"Doesn't surprise me. Two of them are still active addicts. Because I don't use anymore, they'd feel awkward being around me, and they've _always_ felt awkward being around you."

"Why's that?"

"Because you're so pretty."

"Get out of here. What's the real reason?"

"I'm totally serious. You should hear how they talk about you when you're not around! Oh, both Matt and Josh are always like 'your little sister's hot, man' and they totally ride Robbie for having gone out with you before. Matt and Josh are just like that. They talk about girls all the time, but the truth is that neither of them have ever had a meaningful relationship, just one-night stands based on 'hey baby, I'm in a band' pick-up lines."

"Damn. I didn't know."

"Of course not. I mean, they don't wear that on their sleeves or anything. And then there's Robbie. Has he been by lately?"

"No."

"Ain't that a b."

"That's becoming like your newest catchphrase or something."

"And what of it? I don't know what advice to give you about Robbie. I haven't heard anything from him since I left, either. It's like he's fallen off the face of the Earth."

By now, the end credits were over and I was feeling my eyes start to automatically close, so I decided to call it a night.

"Goodnight!" I called to Char as I ascended the stairs. "I hope to see you again at Christmas."

"I hope so, too."

---

I was awakened the next morning by a phone call from Angie.

"Bueno," I answered groggily.

"Good morning, my friend," Angie said, mimicking the robotic voice on her voicemail. "I have a tentative schedule of today's course of events. If you wish to hear it, press one." Grinning, I pressed the 1 button on my phone. "The tentative schedule of today's course of events is as follows. At the earliest convenience, please drive yourself to my abode. We shall then make a pilgrimage to Publix for necessary snacks that are _not_ related to Thanksgiving. For example, such healthful goods as Doritos, Oreos, Cheetos, Pop-Tarts, and anything else you wish for, because my dear mother is footing the bill. Following the Publix pilgrimage, we shall return to my house, where we shall watch Neon Genesis Evangelion until either a) the end of the series or b) our heads explode. Do you agree with this course of events? If so, press one."

"Evangelion? Why that?" In the past, we've generally chosen TV marathons of whatever show looked appealing, video game marathons including Dance Dance Revolution (because Angie has a set of hard mats she ordered off eBay) or a crop of new releases gathered from Blockbuster. Angie's tentative selection of Evangelion mystified me.

"Because stuff blows up, the psychological problems of all the characters will make me feel better about how insane my family is, I could understand the Japanese track without subtitles now, and Kaji is hot."

"Bitch, please! Kaji's just a bunch of paint on cels. Plus, hello? He's romantically involved with Misato to boot."

"Hey, don't shatter the illusion."

"Okay, okay, we can watch Evangelion. It's been a long time since I watched it. Do you have the movies, too?"

"Nope, just the series."

"Fine by me. I'm getting dressed now. I'll be over within the hour."

As I got dressed, I thought about what Char said to me last night about the guys. The whole Matt and Josh thing really surprised me—I had no idea their love lives were so dysfunctional—and the Robbie thing mystified me. Why did he suddenly drop out of my life? What was going on here?

Angie was right. Listening to and watching Shinji struggle through his hedgehog's dilemma would help me forget this whole "off the face of the Earth" thing that seemed to be happening to me. I also decided to ask Angie for her advice.

---

"Well," Angie said sagely, throwing a box of S'mores flavor Pop-Tarts into our cart as we strolled lazily down the aisles of Publix. "There's this really amazing thing that people do sometimes when they wish to get in contact with one another. From what I've heard, it's called 'making a phone call.' It's a fascinating thing, I'm sure."

"You're right. I should call him."

"Mhm." Angie nodded. "Try that sometime. But not during the Evangelion marathon." She stopped the cart and contemplated a bag of strawberry-flavored Twizzlers.

"He _did_ call me right before I went out with Dylan that one time. He said we'd 'hook up,' whatever that means."

"Depends on who you are." Angie threw a bag of M&Ms into our cart. Jesus, I'm probably going to go up to a size 4 from eating all this stuff.

"What do you mean?"

"_Hook up_ has many different connotations. First, there's the simple making out connotation—a connotation that I do believe you have already done with Robbie before in the past."

"Yes. Can we stop talking about this now?" I asked, blushing.

"Then there's the other one, the more serious one." Angie stopped the cart again, this time for emphasis. "That one means S-E-X," she hissed at a whisper. I laughed heartily and resisted the urge to playfully slap her. "What? I'm being totally serious!"

"I know," I sighed.

"Well, _do_ you want to hook up with him?" Angie asked.

"Jesus, I didn't ask for the inquisition," I barked.

"C'mon. Inquiring minds want to know."

"I don't even know _what_ I want anymore. I thought I wanted Dylan, but that didn't go so well. Maybe I'll just take a break from love for a while."

"The heart wants what it wants, man."

That may be true, but how the hell am I supposed to know? All of this seems overly complicated. See, this is why I want to take a break from love for a while.

"Can we stop talking about the hilariously deformed shambles that is my 'love life' for a while and just concentrate on the psychological problems of the Evangelion characters?" I suddenly barked, clearly shocking Angie. "I'm sorry to snap at you, but I'm sick of talking about it."

---

After hour upon hour of Evangelion, when the final DVD finished revolving and I was walking back to my car, suddenly I felt my cell phone vibrating within my purse. I stopped, my breath hanging in the air, and dug it out, all the while wondering who was calling. Perhaps it was Angie. Maybe I forgot something, though I don't think I did. I finally grasped my phone and, knowing that my ringtone was nearing its conclusion, decided to forego looking at the caller ID and just answer.

"Hello?" I asked, struggling to balance my purse, phone, and keys as I waddled to my car.

"Phoebe? It's Robbie."

"Oh, hey!" I said, putting on a patina of cheer. Speak of the devil. "What's up? Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?"

"It was okay. Yours?"

"Char came over, so it was pretty much awesome."

"How is she?"

"She's…fine. Her roommate is a kind soul. She's helping her through." I reached my car and hopped inside, settling into my pilot's—I mean, driver's—seat to continue with the call. "I think she said something about March. Maybe that's when she's getting out." I traced the steering wheel with my left index finger.

"That's good to hear."

"Yeah…Haven't seen you around lately. You used to practically live downstairs. What's up?"

"Well, I kind of have a girlfriend now and I've been spending a lot of time with her lately. I haven't seen the guys much, either."

Huh. He's pussy-whipped.

"Um, that's cool." I tried to swallow my awkwardness, my jealousy, my secret longing to be that girl on his arm again. It's easier to do that by phone.

"We're going to be at the big protest on the 6th. She's not gifted, but she supports the cause."

"That's cool," I repeated. I need to switch up my phrasing or he'll catch on. "What's her name?"

"Julia."

"Julia," I repeated lightly. "Well, I gotta go, Robbie. I guess I'll see you on the 6th."

"Yeah. I'll see you then."

"Okay. Bye now."

"Bye."

When I put my phone back in my purse, why did I feel jealous of Julia?

**PREVIEW OF COMING ATTRACTIONS**

There are eighteen candles on my cake, but for some reason everything feels the same.

Am I going to get arrested?

Why is it that all the guys I've liked are here with other girls?

Christmas always seems to make everything okay again.

I hope 2007 will be better than 2006.

"You can't just come waltzing back into my life and demanding things of me, you know!"

I just can't stand Valentine's Day, so I skipped school.

This was the most terrifying thing I've ever seen. It was like knocking three quick times on the door of unhappiness.

I woke up in an unfamiliar bed. Then he came into the room.

Doesn't the Constitution protect this?

How could a loving God allow this?

"Take care of yourself. Lord knows I won't anymore."

Even though times are tough, some things just always have to happen.

Hey, this girl's pretty cool.

The beginning of the end.

"Good morning, sunshine!"

Wow. This shit's about to get heavy. Stay tuned for more She Who Heals!


	11. Sleep Now in the Fire

11: Sleep Now in the Fire

From Chapter 11 on, chapters will now have names that aren't just one word! Yay! (This one commemorates a Rage Against the Machine song.) Also, Bob the Robot noticed this in his review, but the story has passed through the exposition stage and is closer to the resolution. It's not there yet by any stretch of the imagination. However, now the general tone is getting ready to change. This story won't just be about a young woman's fairly normal life anymore. Just wait 

Oh and: A Heroes character appears in this chapter. I don't own the rights to that character, of course.

There are eighteen candles on my cake, but for some reason everything feels the same. Eighteen tiny flames struggled against the gale force of my breath and eighteen little candles now smolder, their wax dripping down onto the chocolate frosting.

"Yay!" cheered Mom and Angie when I finished making my wish. What was my wish? Well, I can't tell you because then it won't come true. Duh.

I then set about eating cake and opening my presents. Mom got me a necklace of classy white pearls that I immediately donned. Maybe those did make me feel a little different. She's had a strand of pearls since as long as I can remember. To me, pearls always represented womanhood, so when I put them on, I felt like I was leaving my girlhood behind. That means I have to start acting like an adult now, right?

Angie, on the other hand, gave me the second season of The Office on DVD. Maybe I can laugh at childish "That's what she said" jokes, even as an adult.

"You know what you need to do now?" she asked me as Mom went back into her room to fetch Char's gift, which was kept away from my prying eyes for some odd reason.

"What?" I said, reading the back of the DVD case.

"Play the lottery! I mean, why not? Even if you don't win anything, at least you feel more accomplished." Angie was grinning from ear to ear.

"After I open Char's gift, we can run down to Publix and I'll play a scratchcard," I declared right as Mom came back, holding a pretty large box that was wrapped in shining gold paper with a humongous gold bow. "Jesus!" I exclaimed when it came to the table. The overhead light shone on it, nearly blinding me. I squinted as I tore the paper asunder, eventually revealing…a brand new iBook. I think my heart skipped a beat. It was just that amazing.

"Wow!" Angie said in sheer amazement. She, too, was awed in its presence.

"Char got me _this_?" I whispered. "Don't tell me it's like one of those jokes where I open the box and all I see is a smaller box, on and on, until it's nothing but two tampons wrapped in a tiny box."

"Don't be so skeptical, Phoebe," Mom said to me, grinning. "It's the real deal. Char and I figured you could use it for college."

"Um, _of course_ I'll use it for college!" I said with a laugh. "Oh my God! I have to configure the network settings! Choose a wallpaper! Make that Stephen Hawking voice say 'I like big butts and I cannot lie'! So much to do!"

"But we have to go to Publix first! Lottery!" Angie shouted at me.

"R-right. Lottery." I calmed down and stood up from my chair, still reluctant to leave my iBook. "But when I come back…"

"Of course! We'll configure everything then!" Angie said, tugging my shirtsleeve. "C'mon, those scratchcards aren't going to scratch themselves!"

---

A tiny, snow-white kitten stared at me from the glossy surface of my "Fat Cat" ticket. I was told I could win up to ten times just by running the edge of a quarter across a random arrangement of squares. My quarter hovered above the card's surface. I couldn't figure out which squares to scratch. Angie peeked over my shoulder, trying to decide the luckiest arrangement to scratch off, as I did a little people-watching around the fairly empty store. It was late, and cold, so not too many people were out doing their shopping.

The lottery kiosk was situated right next to the automatic doors, which allowed for a delightfully cold draft to come in every once in a while and chill me to the core. As I tried to think of some lucky arrangement to scratch off, I watched as someone—no, two someones—approached the automatic doors. The doors whooshed open and the cold stung me momentarily. Then the doors closed again and I realized who was coming in to do some shopping.

It was none other than Robbie, still dressed for work, and some absolutely gorgeous blonde woman wearing a black fur coat. Ugh. If it's real fur, I don't like her. If it's faux, I like her. Is this the Julia I heard about? She looks like this model I saw in Vanity Fair.

Robbie glanced left, towards the bakery, and then right, towards me. Like a tractor beam, his glance pierced me and I could immediately feel my face reddening. He looked so hot, even in his work clothes. I think he's a paralegal or something, so he has to get all dressed up—dress shirt, tie, slacks, wingtips, the whole shebang. Because loose long hair doesn't look too professional (I guess), he also ties his hair up in a ponytail. That just increases the attractiveness.

"Phoebe! Hey!" he said graciously, waving to me.

"Hey," I said back, trying to act casual.

"What're you up to?" he asked, walking towards me.

"Um, playing the lottery."

"You can do that now?"

"Yep. I just turned 18, like, an hour ago." I was born at 8:35 PM. My watch said 9:35 PM, so it was literally an hour ago, not just an exaggeration.

"Well, happy birthday."

"Thanks." My eyes moved towards Julia.

"This is Julia."

"Hi, very nice to meet you," Julia said in an airy, lilting voice, extending her hand for me to shake. She had a French manicure. I shook her hand.

"Phoebe," I said. "And my friend Angie." Angie looked over and did a little head nod with her eyebrows raised, which was an extremely casual way to say hello that was really only used in the hallways at school.

"We gotta go. I know I'm starving," Robbie said.

"Me too," Julia agreed. Then, she looked me dead in the eyes—she had very light blue eyes, almost like crystal—and deliberately looped her arm with Robbie's, pulling him close to her.

"Well, good to see you," Robbie said with a nod unlike Angie's. "Happy birthday."

"Thanks. 'Bye."

"'Bye." I watched as they left my line of sight, counted to five in my head, and turned to face Angie.

"That's Julia! The girl Robbie told me he's going out with," I hissed.

"She's gorgeous," Angie replied.

"Was that a real fur coat?" I asked with a hint of disgust.

"Do I sense jealousy?"

"Jealousy? As if. More disgust than anything. I mean, how many rabbits died to make that thing?" I snorted in disgust.

"Coupled with jealousy. Now, here is the luckiest arrangement of squares that you should scratch." Angie pointed at the squares and as I began to scratch them, my mind wandered. I remembered a time where I was the girl on his arm. I didn't look nearly as glamorous, but I was there. Now it was gone, brushed off like the shiny gray shavings from my Fat Cat card. And, as the two of them walked away, I felt jealous. Angie was right.

Then, to add insult to injury, I didn't win anything.

---

December 5th passed by in a haze. I'm not even sure what I did that day, if anything out of the ordinary. That night, I warned Mom that she might want to take a sick day tomorrow to avoid the crowds. She told me she was already planning on it and quizzed me on my knowledge of arrest procedures during a protest. I passed that quiz with flying colors. I mean, I would like to avoid getting arrested if at all possible, but at least I know my stuff if it should happen.

On December 6th, a seemingly normal school day, Angie rode with me to school like usual, except this time she was carrying a rolled-up piece of poster board adorned with the slogan "We're not mistakes and we can't be fixed". We decided to park in the school parking lot and hoof it to the CDC, knowing very well that the lots around the CDC would probably be jam-packed. As we left the school campus and walked past the lavish Emory dorms next door, I saw two figures approaching from the right out of my peripheral vision.

"Phoebe!" one of them called out. Angie and I both turned around and saw Dylan standing hand-in-hand with some pretty little sophomore girl. They were wearing matching white shirts that shouted "NO SHOT" in giant bubble letters (undoubtedly penned by the girl) and had spatters of red fabric paint intended to represent blood. The white shirt looked odd against Dylan's fairly pasty skin, but it made the girl's pretty caramel-colored skin look even better.

"Oh, hi, Dylan," I said, once again putting on that patina of cheer. That patina is becoming very familiar to me. "Headed to the protest?"

"You bet," he responded. "This is Mariposa," he said, gesturing towards the girl.

"Hey, Mariposa," I said grimly.

"That means 'butterfly', doesn't it?" Angie asked out of nowhere.

"Yeah! How'd you know that?" Mariposa asked in a high, squeaky voice.

"It's my ability. I can understand, write and speak any language," Angie said proudly.

"Cool," Mariposa cooed. "I'm so jealous."

"What's your ability?" I asked.

"Oh, I don't have one. I just support the cause." Mariposa giggled.

Why is it that all the guys I've liked are here with other girls that don't have powers?

"How nice," I said, slathering on that patina.

"Plus, I get to miss school! Yay!" Mariposa giggled again, this time with more intensity. Jesus, what is she _on_? I mean, she's so happy that it's making my head hurt. I think Angie used her best-friend-sense to recognize how Mariposa was making me feel. She immediately left Mariposa's side and came back to me.

"_Idiot girl, huh_?" Angie asked me in Japanese. She knows that I know the words for 'idiot' and 'girl'.

"_Yeah_," I replied in Japanese. Angie smiled grimly and patted my shoulder. This meant "That girl should be you."

We walked the rest of the way to the CDC in silence. Only when we reached the police blockade did we start talking again. Yep, the police actually came and blocked off a perimeter around the CDC for us to use without the interference of cars. How kind of them! However, the sight of a line of policemen clad in full riot gear was rather off-putting. When we got there, Angie unrolled her poster and started waving it around. Somewhere behind us, Mariposa shrieked like my brakes do whenever I have to stop quickly. On a makeshift stage in front of the CDC, near the MARTA bus stop, a guy with a Mohawk was shouting something into a bullhorn. Every so often, the crowd would cheer in agreement, so we started cheering too.

"Do you know what we're cheering for?" Angie screamed over the din.

"No idea!" I screamed back. "But it's probably good!" When I concentrated on the guy with the bullhorn, I began to understand what he was saying a lot better.

"…money should be spent on curing real, actual diseases that kill millions every year. Where's our cure for cancer? Our miracle shot for HIV/AIDS? These diseases are actual killers and the CDC _knows_ this. We as gifted people are not doing anything wrong! We just happen to have the ability to do special things that other people are clearly jealous of." Angie and I shouted our approval. "This tyrannical Administration of ours is quietly feeding the CDC money and resources to research a cure…for us. Can you imagine not having your powers anymore? I sure can't. Why is Dubya making this his first priority when so many other things in this country are more fucked up?" A great majority of the crowd roared with applause and cheering that the Mohawked man just ate up.

"This guy has a point," Angie told me. I nodded vigorously.

"So that is why I am asking each and every one of you to write, to call, to e-mail every single government official you can think of. Representatives, Senators, that dumbass President himself…hell, even the county dogcatcher if you want. Tell them that you are, in the words of Howard Beale from Network, mad as hell and not going to take it anymore!" There was thunderous cheering and applause. "Thank you." The man took a bow and left the stage. A moment later, an Indian man with short curly black hair and a 5 o'clock shadow ascended the stage.

"How about a round of applause for Tim Donaldson of the Atlanta Action Agency!" he suggested into the bullhorn and we complied. "Wow, this is a great turnout." He had a British accent. "I am incredibly impressed, but at the same time, I'm not surprised. I have done a good bit of research on Atlanta, especially its heritage. This great city is where Martin Luther King, Junior, the leader of the civil rights movement, was born, went to school, did his preaching, and was laid to rest. Your fair city has a legacy of instrumentality in changing the world. Today, we are all changing the world once again."

"Who is this guy?" Angie asked me.

"I don't know, but I like him," I replied with a nod.

"Because I am a doctor who has done extensive research, beefing up the theories my father first proposed in _Activating Evolution_, I was actually asked to contribute my knowledge to this diabolical vaccination project." There was some booing, not for the person, but for that diabolical vaccination project. In that moment, after the man said _Activating Evolution_, I knew who he was.

"Holy crap," I said, gasping.

"What's wrong?" Angie asked, looking around fearfully.

"That's—that's—That's LizardMan!" I cried out.

"What in the hell are you talking about?" Angie asked, partially imitating Homer Simpson and partially wanting to know what in the hell I was talking about.

"LizardMan! He's that guy from the forum! The guy who told me about this! I want to talk to him," I declared.

"Feebs!!" Angie shouted as I took off running towards the side of the stage where Mohinder—was that his name?—would eventually come down. "Feebs, wait!" Angie shoved through the crowd, furiously shouting 'excuse me' over and over, until she caught up with me. I'm sure I must have looked like those crazy groupie girls who wait after a rock concert for any sign of the band members, but I didn't really care. Eventually, Mohinder did come down off the side of the stage, and I was right there waiting for him.

"Dr. Suresh!" I called out. "Hi! Hi. I'm Phoebe."

"Phoebe…" he said slowly, trying to remember where he knew me from. "Oh yes, Phoebe! The girl who can heal people. How are you doing today, Phoebe?"

"I'm fine," I said, blushing slightly. Well, he _is_ quite attractive. "This is my friend Angie. She can speak any language."

"Really?" Mohinder asked, his eyes growing wide. He turned to Angie and started chatting with her in what I think was Hindi. After a minute or so he turned back to me. "Both of you are so impressive. How old are you ladies?"

"I just turned 18 two days ago," I said proudly.

"I'm still 17 for a little while," Angie said with a shrug.

"Thanks for talking so nicely about Atlanta," I added.

"It's my pleasure. Your city is wonderful." Both of us laughed, flattered.

"Big crowd today, huh?" Angie asked, gesturing towards the ever-growing crowd.

"Yes, and such a cross-section of humanity as well. As I spoke, I looked over the crowd and saw students, businessmen, doctors, nurses…Is there a university nearby?"

"Um, yeah. Emory's right next door." I pointed in the direction of Emory Hospital. "And our high school is like a block away."

"Shit, do you think we can get excused absences for this?" Angie asked.

"Who cares?" I asked in response. "I'll just get my mom to write a 'Phoebe was sick' note. So, Mohinder, if I can call you that, how long are you going to be in Atlanta?"

"A week or so. I just got in yesterday."

"Sweet. There are lots of places you need to go to."

"Totally. Have you seen the aquarium yet?" Angie asked. "It's a big new building downtown, right by Centennial Olympic Park, shaped like a boat." One of Angie's relatives works at the aquarium, so we've been before.

"No, I haven't."

"It's pretty awesome. And then the park is next door…"

"Isn't that where the bombing happened?"

"During the Olympics?" I interjected. "Yeah, that's the place."

"That happened over ten years ago. How do you remember it?"

"Eh, I was a precocious little kid." I shrugged. "Oh, go out to Stone Mountain if you get the chance. Just take 78 all the way out east until you see it. Can't miss it."

"Then there's the King Center. Since you mentioned Dr. King, you should probably go there," Angie advised. She glanced over at the crowd and squinted, suddenly frowning at the mass.

"What's up?" I asked.

"Holy shit," Angie suddenly whispered, looking horrified. "Those guys over there have Molotovs!"

"What?!" I screamed.

"Molotov cocktails! Look!" Angie pointed at a group of normal-looking young men holding what appeared to be half-full beer bottles with something coming out of the neck. They were nudging through the crowd, concealing said bottles beneath their jackets.

"Oh my God," I whispered. "What're they going to do?!"

"Um, throw them over the gate." Black iron gates circle the CDC building to provide even more safety, though the _really_ dangerous stuff is kept far underground.

"Jesus God!" I exclaimed. "Let's get out of here."

"Where will we go?" Mohinder asked.

"I don't know, but we're getting the fuck out of here before things get nasty. Come on." I soldiered on through the crowd, Angie and Mohinder following behind, and warned people of the oncoming cocktails. Right as I was about to warn my fifth person, I heard the tinny sound of glass cracking, followed by the whoosh of fire. Out of instinct, I looked over and saw the dry grass of the CDC campus sparking and crackling. The fire, though, was quickly spreading towards the actual buildings.

"Fire!!" someone screamed out. It was at this very moment that all hell broke loose. People started running and screaming, creating general chaos. To add insult to injury, the riot police started swarming in, brandishing their batons and unmarked cylindrical cans of something.

"PHOEBE!" Angie screamed, hurrying to catch up to me. "Phoebe! Where are we going?"

"Over there!" I shouted, pointing to a bank. I think it's a Bank of America. "Maybe to those apartments back there!" There is, indeed, an apartment complex directly behind the bank. "Don't look back!"

"Oh shit!" Angie defied me and looked back to see the police beating the absolute crap out of some of the protestors, mostly the ones who were fighting back. "They're beating the hell out of this lanky guy! He looks like he goes to our school!"

"That's not right…" I muttered, shaking my head.

"Phoebe, where'd Mohinder go?" Angie asked, her voice shaking.

"I don't know, but he's a grown man, he can fend for himself. I'm not very strong and what if people need healing?" I pointed out as I crawled under the police barricade and dashed towards Houston Mill Road. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw news crews approaching, their white vans tearing down Clifton like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse. Channel 2, Fox 5, 11 Alive, CBS 46, they were all there. I closed my eyes for a moment as I ran, sending a little prayer God's way.

I just don't want this to get ugly like the Battle of Seattle.

"The bank!" I barked, scrambling towards the stout little building. Angie followed behind and we took cover behind the drive-thru ATM. We hunched over to catch our breath, wheezing like old dogs.

"Holy shit," Angie wailed as she panted. The fire was now being quenched by little fire extinguishers wielded by the riot police. It only charred the side of one of the buildings and a good stretch of the grass, so no catastrophic damage was done to the CDC. However, the situation on the street was not a pretty one. The police were now using those cylindrical containers, which turned out to contain tear gas. It spread quickly and even we were blinking back tears only a minute or so later.

"Hold still," I told Angie, who was shaking out of fear, as I touched her arm. "Does it hurt anymore?" I was still blinking furiously and tears were streaming down my face, but it was more important to heal my friend.

"N-no," she whimpered.

"I know," I said softly. "I'm scared, too." Right as I said that, some asshole in a giant black SUV rolled up, wanting to use the drive-thru ATM, but they couldn't see us very well. "SHIT!" I grabbed Angie and flung us aside, standing up a second later so I could go yell at the driver. "HEY!" I shouted, shaking a fist at the SUV. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" The driver rolled down the tinted window and, a moment later, I was looking Julia right square in the eyes. Actually, I was looking at myself because her giant Gucci sunglasses had lenses like mirrors. I didn't look so good.

"Oh, hi, Julia," I said, still feeling angry as hell. "Done with your 'protesting' and want to get your capitalism on?"

"Shut up," she said coldly as she reached out to insert her card into the ATM. "The situation became a little too…_juvenile_ for my liking, so I decided to take my leave."

"And almost plow right into two innocent young women in the process."

"I suppose." She typed her PIN. "Thought it would be quite a stretch to call you two young women. I would say _little girls_ is a better phrase."

"You bitch. I'm eighteen."

"You bitch. I'm eighteen," Julia mimicked in a squeaky high voice, even higher so than Mariposa's. "Listen, you. Robbie told me that you two used to go out. He thinks you still have a thing for him. Well, let me give it to you straight. If I _ever_ see him with you, if I _ever_ overhear him talking to you, if I _ever _see that he's e-mailed you, then you're going down." She withdrew a fat stack of twenties. "That's a promise."

"You're full of it! You're forbidding him to talk to a friend?"

"Maybe I am."

"God, he's so pussy-whipped!" I spat. Julia twisted her face in disgust and slapped me, her French manicured nails scratching my face. Then, she rolled her window up and drove away.

"Feebs!" Angie said, looking me over. "Can you heal yourself? You probably should."

"I don't know if I can…"

"Touch your arm!" Angie moved my left hand onto my right arm. "What a bitch that Julia is. I overheard what she said to you." I felt my trademark tingle. "Your face is healed now."

"Good. So, how long do you think we should hide here?" I asked, looking out over the spectacle below.

"I don't know," Angie said sadly.


	12. The Aftermath

12: The Aftermath

Wow, Chapter 11 was a long one, wasn't it? Word says it was…11 pages. Writing about protests/riots is fun, especially with a soundtrack of Rage Against the Machine. They're great protest music.

Also: I've set up camp at heroesfiction. Come on over and check out some more good Heroes stuff!

Angie and I sat on the sidewalk, gazing down at the protest scene. A lot of people had already dispersed. As some people were being hauled away in police vans, screaming like banshees, I noticed other people writhing around on the ground helplessly.

"Crap," I muttered. "I have to go help them." I leapt up off the sidewalk and took off running back downhill towards Clifton Road.

"Feebs! Wait up!" Angie left her spot and ran down after me.

"Hope the tear gas has dispersed by now," I said when we got back down. A woman who looked like Connie Chung was interviewing that Mohawked guy from earlier in front of a news camera. Another woman was having her hair trained down just moments before going on her own camera. A newsman was walking slowly through the scene, describing everything in detail to his camera. I knelt down before the lanky guy Angie saw getting beaten. He was groaning in pain, something about maybe having a broken rib.

"Hey, that's that guy from earlier," Angie noted.

"Are you okay?" I asked him. He groaned and turned to face me, moving strands of jet-black hair from his face. When he managed to open his eyes just a bit to look at me, I realized I was looking at Todd. "Todd!"

"Phoebe," he said weakly. Awkward!

"What _happened_ to you?" I asked. He had on a black shirt advertising some obscure punk band, but it was stained deep maroon with blood.

"Pigs got to me," he spat.

"Can I have a better look?" I asked.

"Have at it."

I gingerly pulled up Todd's shirt until I was greeted by a horrifyingly large pool of blood stemming from one of his ribs. Indeed, he did have a broken rib. Angie and I gasped at the same time.

"Oh my God," I said, my voice shaking. "I'll do my best to fix it here, but if I can't, Emory Hospital is just down the street." I put both of my hands on his right arm, squeezed my eyes shut, and sent off another prayer asking for my powers to work. Thankfully, my hands started tingling. Hallelujah! I opened my eyes and watched in horror and amazement as the pool of blood disappeared, followed by an odd cracking noise that must have been the rib bone resetting itself.

"Jesus God, that's police brutality," Angie remarked. "What were you doing wrong?"

"I was all up in their faces, saying my First Amendment rights and all of that," Todd replied. "The pig said he didn't like my attitude."

"Sorry to hear that." I helped Todd up to his feet. "I need to help some of the other people. Can you stand okay?"

"I guess."

"Angie, can you help Todd out if he needs it?" I asked. Angie nodded. "Good." I went off on my healing mission, helping all sorts of people. There was a girl who had broken her arm when she took a hard fall during the chaos. I fixed it for her and she gave me a big hug in return. Another man had a nasty, Texas-shaped bruise that was a lot of fun to watch as it disappeared. There were a lot of bumps and bruises, a few other broken limbs, and then there was Mariposa, who was hyperventilating. _That_ was a lot of fun to deal with.

"Maybe we should be leaving now," Angie suggested. Todd nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, good idea." I started back down Clifton, in the direction of my car, with Angie and Todd following behind. The problem is that we didn't get very far. We were just about to reach the police barricade when, all of a sudden, we were told to freeze where we were and put our hands up.

Am I going to get arrested?

I'm sure we had that deer-in-headlights look as we complied because we seriously wanted to know _what the hell was going on_. A few seconds later, what looked like the entire riot police force was on us (and some other stragglers), cuffing us with those weird plastic tag handcuffs they use sometimes.

"What's going on here?" Angie demanded.

"Shut up!" one of the policemen commanded.

"No, seriously, what's going on?" she continued, her voice rising in pitch to a scarily high level. "We weren't doing anything wrong."

"Just shut up."

"Angie, they'll beat you too if you keep talking," Todd pointed out.

"But why are we being arrested?" Angie shouted at a level about an octave higher than her normal voice. "I don't understand what we were doing wrong! We were just exercising our First Amendment rights!"

"Don't bother with talking about that. These pigs obviously skipped the time in fourth-grade social studies when the teacher talked about the Constitution," Todd spat angrily.

I decided to keep silent because a) though we didn't hear our Miranda rights, I assumed they still applied and b) I was freaking the fuck out. When I freak out, I don't make much sense if I choose to talk. So, naturally, I decided not to. The police herded us into a giant van that's probably only brought out for situations like this. The van was already close to full with other people from the protest when we got in and there were even more people coming after us. The resulting drive to the police station reminded me of how sardines must feel in their little can.

"Todd," I said, waving my bound arms in an attempt to catch his attention. He looked lost in thought. "Todd!" He turned to me. "Hey, you okay?"

"No."

"Me neither. Hey, one of my friends is a lawyer or something. Maybe he can tell us about this stuff, whether it's constitutional or whatnot," I said, trying to provide some reassurance.

"Hold your horses there, Lash LaRue," Angie said. "Don't you remember what Julia said about talking to Robbie again?"

"FUCK JULIA!" I screamed, causing many heads to turn. I simply smiled awkwardly at them. "This is more important. Robbie knows the lay of the law, right?"

"Well, probably," Angie said with a shrug.

"And we are presently in a bit of a pickle with the law, aren't we?" I asked. The van hit a pothole and all of our butts left our benches for a moment.

"You have a point."

"So, he can help us."

"I'm not using my one phone call to holla at your ex-boyfriend for legal advice," Angie said bitterly.

"Oh _hell_ no! I'm using my phone call to call Mom. I'm saying _after_ we get out of the station, we call him."

"Who's this Robbie guy?" Todd asked, wanting to jump in to the conversation.

"He's a paralegal for some big law firm downtown," I explained.

"But wait, wasn't he here today?" Angie asked.

"I think so."

"Then…" Angie trailed off and her eyes widened in horror. "Was he arrested too?"

---

Say what you will about the Atlanta Police Department, but they sure do get the booking process done quickly. They had each of us in and out, even with the mug shot and fingerprinting, in two minutes or less. Oh God, I have a mug shot. What if I get famous someday and they plaster it all over The Smoking Gun and all those other sites? Even Bill Gates has a mug shot out there. That hasn't been detrimental to him, but mug shots have been to other celebrities like James Brown.

After we were all booked, we had to sit in the holding cells, separated by gender, for a while as the overlords (I guess you cold call them that) decided our fate. Surely they couldn't ask all of us to appear in court. I mean, I still don't know what I did wrong. In fact, I don't think I did anything wrong at all.

Oh yeah, don't call me Shirley.

During this time, because all our stuff was taken away from us during booking, nobody had any cell phone games for distractions or anything like that. We all had to sit, chill, and talk to each other. It was actually pretty fun. All of us introduced ourselves and showed off our different powers (if we had them). I wonder what was happening at the guys' cell.

Just after all of us finished our roundtable introductions, there was a deafening buzz and the cell door opened up to show a policeman standing there with a grim look on his face. Some of us stood up in anticipation while others sat still, choked by nervousness.

"You're all free to go," the policeman said gruffly. "All charges have been dropped." The cell erupted in applause that the policeman simply wrinkled his nose in disgust at. We all got our stuff back in the same condition we surrendered it in. In the suddenly too-small lobby of the station, girls were reunited with guys. I noticed the _absence_ of Dylan and Mariposa—perhaps after I healed her, he came by and flew them away before the police could get to them. When I saw Todd, I called him over to me.

"Where are you headed?" I asked.

"Back home," he replied.

"Back home? Your parents took you back in?"

"Yeah, over Thanksgiving."

"Well, that's good to hear, Todd. You take care of yourself, okay?"

"Okay." Todd walked outside and left my line of sight. I assume he turned into his crow form and flew home. Damn, now I wish I could fly too!

"Can you believe we had mug shots made?" Angie asked as she looked through her purse to make sure everything was intact.

"I can't," I replied honestly. "I hope I didn't look bad in mine."

"Dude, are you going to tell your mom about this?" Angie asked.

"Definitely. She used to go to civil rights protests back in the day."

"I didn't know that."

"Now you do." I looked around and realized two things: 1) we were far away from the school and 2) we lacked motor transport. "SHIT!"

"What?"

"How are we supposed to get back?" I shut my eyes and concentrated for a moment before an idea suddenly leapt into my head. "I know!" I tore open my purse and searched for my phone. When I found it, I brought it out like a treasured relic.

"Who are you calling?"

"Robbie," I answered innocently.

"Are you insane?! What if Julia's with him?"

"Once again, my friend, _fuck Julia_." I found Robbie's number in my received calls list and commanded my phone to call him up. It rang three times before he answered.

"Hello?" he asked.

"Robbie? It's Phoebe. Listen up, man. Me and my homegirl are in—were in—some serious fucking shit. We're far away from my car with no method of returning."

"Phoebe? Where are you?"

"Hell if I know…" I looked around for any semblance of an address. "Angie! Help me look for an address." She nodded and looked around until she saw one.

"We're on Hosea Williams Drive!" she reported.

"We're on Hosea Williams Drive," I told Robbie. "We're at the…Zone 6 station."

"You're at the police station?" Robbie asked.

"Yeah, we got arrested. It was pretty scary."

"Wait, you two were arrested?"

"Yep! And we don't really know why! But they let us go free, so it's all cool again. We had mug shots taken!"

"Jesus, I'm glad I got out of there."

"Yeah, where did you go?"

"I went invisible and went back to my car. Then I drove back to work."

"Oh, speaking of driving—which I sincerely hope you do to pick our sad asses up—your _girlfriend_ almost killed me today."

"What? Why?"

"She almost ran me over. We were hiding at that bank by the CDC and she came to get a fat stack of twenties. Then, I yelled at her and she threatened to kill me if she finds out I'm talking to you. Or that I see you. Or e-mail you."

"Bitch…" I heard Robbie mutter.

"You're telling me," I said with a chuckle.

"I'll come pick you two up. Then I'm going to talk to Julia about this. This is really disturbing to me."

"Me too. Don't forget to delete my call from your call history."

"Why should I? Julia won't follow through."

"She scratched my face."

"Okay, maybe she _will_ follow through. I'll delete the call."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"'Bye." By now, Angie was sitting on the curb, tracing shapes in the pavement. "Robbie's coming to get us."

"I guess I should start writing your obituary, then," Angie said gravely.

"No need to. Robbie said he was going to have a talk with Julia about that."

"Who knows if that'll mean anything, though?"

"I don't know anything anymore, man. I mean, come on, we were just arrested without any real probable cause. I have a reason to be a little cynical."

"Maybe you're right." Angie sighed. I sat down next to her and started to play Tetris on my phone. When Angie heard the familiar Tetris music, she immediately perked up and leaned over my screen, shouting out helpful advice such as "Move that thingy! Not that thingy, _that_ thingy!" and "Flip it! FLIP IT!! Shit, you didn't flip it!" until Robbie pulled up in his little BMW. At least he drives a sensible car.

I went up to the passenger side, but it was chock-full of lawyer crap like papers and manila folders, so I sat in the back and Angie followed my lead.

"Leather," she remarked. I have cloth seats, so leather is like a big deal to her.

"Thanks for picking us up," I told Robbie as he shifted into gear and drove off.

"It's no problem. So, you two got arrested?"

"Hells yeah. Like I said, our mug shots are now on file," I reported. "The weirdest part about the whole thing was that the police never said why we were getting arrested. When Angie asked, they told her to shut up. I didn't talk at all."

"Well, during protests, the police tend to get a little crazy. My theory is that they booked you on disturbing the peace."

"Disturbing the peace? What a bullshit charge."

"You're telling me." He glanced up at us through his rearview mirror and I noticed that he had his hair up in a ponytail again. "Is it OK if I turn on NPR?"

"NPR! Only liberal granola-eating hippies listen to NPR!" I joked. "Yeah, sure, it's fine." See, I know for a fact that all three of us are liberals, so that joke is just a self-defacing one.

"Sure," Angie echoed. Robbie fiddled with some buttons and switches on his XM radio receiver until NPR came in. A woman was talking about local news.

"In other news, a protest at the Centers for Disease Control descended into chaos after Molotov cocktails were thrown onto the CDC campus. Police are working to find suspects. The protest, organized by a certain Dr. Mohinder Suresh and intended to be an example of nonviolent resistance, was attended by thousands of people from all walks of life. All were protesting a proposed vaccination that would negate special abilities such as flight in people that have them. For National Public Radio, I'm Rae Johnson."

"That's the watered-down version," I commented. "The real, gritty version is going to be all over the evening news."

"It'll be the main headline tomorrow in the AJC," Angie added.

---

Robbie managed to get into the packed student parking lot to drop us off, although he did fear for his car a few times during the whole maneuver.

"Thanks again for picking us up," I said. "Don't forget to talk to Julia about how my head will apparently roll for even seeing you!"

"I won't," he said with a look of steely resolve on his face that kind of scared me. He rolled up his window and drove away.

"Well, now that _that's_ all over…" Angie began, walking towards my car. "Wanna go get some ice cream?"

"That sounds like a great idea," I said exasperatedly. "Is Muriel and Sebastian's OK?"

"When is it _not_ OK?" Angie countered.

"Well played, my friend."

We hopped into my car and mulled over our thoughts about the day with the help of some ice cream. I wondered many things: if Mohinder was OK, if Julia was going to go psycho-killer on me (or Robbie), and if this protest had done anything good for our cause. At least now I have a good story to tell the kids someday—if I have any.


	13. Fainting Couch

13: Fainting Couch

Note: Dangit! After I've already written Mohinder as a guy who _doesn't_ want to use his research to create a cure, Heroes has to go ahead and make him _receptive_ to the idea of a cure! Curses! Well, I'll just keep my Mohinder the way he is. Also, Wikipedia, that bastion of knowledge, doesn't have an age listed for Mohinder! It says "unknown." However, I think I gave a pretty good ballpark estimate of it.

That night and the next day, Atlanta was all over the news. Of course the protest was headline news in the AJC and the top story of all the local channels, but it even made CNN and the New York Times and I have a sneaking suspicion that it was probably talked about overseas as well. However, though I felt proud to see my city getting some attention, I also felt dissatisfied by the protest as a whole. All it seemed to be doing was showing how barbaric people can be in a crisis situation. It wasn't sparking any real debate about the vaccination.

I wondered if Mohinder was still in town, so I went on _AEBA_ and shot off a quick private message to him.

"Hey. Are you still in Atlanta? Hope the protest didn't sour you on the city." Practically 2 seconds later, a reply came.

"Yes, I am still in Atlanta. No, the protest did not affect my view of it. It is really a gorgeous city."

"Good to hear it. Hey, I'm feeling a little dissatisfied by the protest."

"Why so?"

"I don't know. I just don't think it's sparked the right kind of discussion. I think everyone's looking at us and thinking we're barbaric."

"Maybe some of that is happening, but I think that global change is going to come from this. Have you read the forum since yesterday?"

"No…"

"Case in point. Go read it when you get a chance. The sheer volume of discussion is a bit overwhelming, but there are a lot of good ideas there. People there recognize that this protest has the power to change the world."

"I still have my doubts." Maybe this was a conversation-ender, because for about ten minutes I didn't receive any replies, which seemed thoroughly bizarre. Then, I received another private message. As I waited for the page to load, I started mentally composing a reply. 'Where were you?' 'Did ya die?' Stuff like that. But the actual message was so out-of-left-field that it left me too shocked to make a goofy reply.

"This will probably sound—or look—strange, but I have read nothing but good things about this one restaurant. Problem is that it sounds very upscale and I don't want to go alone. Since you're the only person I know in Atlanta, would you accompany me there?"

Ex-squeeze me?

"Where?" I typed back.

"Some place called Bacchanalia." WHOA! Bacchanalia? That place has won pretty much every dining award from every publication in Atlanta. It is _incredibly_ upscale. I don't know if a wench like me would be allowed in there unless I gussied myself up. But hey, it's freaking Bacchanalia (and, if I play the poor-high-school-student card, maybe he'll pay for it). You only live once, right?

"Sure. I'll go with you."

"Thank you very much. Do you know where Bacchanalia is?"

"No, but I can Mapquest it. What time?"

"Let's say 7 pm on Friday." Jesus God. I put this information on a little sticky note that sat in the top right-hand corner of my iBook desktop, next to a file folder labeled "FUN". "I'm afraid that my ability to pay will be a problem."

"That's fine, I can pick up the tab."

"Wow, that's incredibly kind of you."

"So is your willingness to come along."

"So I guess I'll see you Friday." Will they even let my little Honda Accord park in their lot?

"Yes, see you then. Thank you, Phoebe."

"You're welcome." I closed my iBook and reached for my phone. First, I called Angie (of course) and told her about this shocking new development. However, right after her, I called Char. She read about the protest, so she knew part of the story, but I filled in with the rest. After she personally threatened to tear Julia a new one, I told her about the…the…It's not a date, is it? It's an outing. Yeah, that sounds classy.

"The problem is thus: I don't own any clothes fancy enough for a place like that. I mean, I gave last year's prom dress away to Goodwill and all my other dresses are from Target."

"Oh, little sis, I knew this day would come. The day when you need to dress…to impress."

"What's up?" I heard Mimi ask in the background.

"Phoebe needs a good dress to impress an older man," Char explained. "She's going on a date!"

"It's NOT a date!" I screamed. "It's an OUTING."

"It is what it is. Okay, here's the solution. I, Charlotte Reid, hereby give you, Phoebe Reid, full permission to raid my closet for something to wear provided that the items you choose return to me in good condition. As God and Mimi Agbayani are my witnesses, I promise this to you on this seventh day of December, 2006."

"You're giving me free rein in your closet?" I asked with a hint of shock. This was an incredibly rare thing for Char to do and I needed to make sure that she wasn't joking.

"Yes, but you must also do this: Call me beforehand, place the call on speakerphone, and describe to me what you are thinking of choosing. I will advise you on the best accessory choices and makeup palette. Also, check the tag of whatever you choose to wear and do what it says right afterwards." Char takes seriously good care of the stuff she left behind—the designer stuff. She watches her clothes with the same intensity as a pimp uses to watch his hoes. Ugh, maybe that wasn't the best comparison to make.

"I can do that!" I exclaimed out of pure joy.

"It's too bad I can't be there to see it. How's the iBook treating you?"

"It's treating me very well," I reported. "I have it all customized."

"Most excellent! If I can get a day or two off around Christmas, I'll definitely come down for the gift-giving. I'm doing a lot better here. I've been clean ever since I entered, of course, and it's been a difficult transition, but I'm doing it."

"I'm helping her out!" I heard Mimi shout.

"Mimi's helping me out," Char said exasperatedly. "My counselor has been saying to look forward to March. She won't say exactly why, but I can read between the lines. I believe that's when I'm coming home." I think I let out a little squeal of happiness.

"We _have_ to have a party or something when you get back," I declared.

"I'd like that a lot. Well, I gotta go. I have a group meeting in like five minutes. Call me tomorrow, okay? Good luck on your date!"

"It's not a date! It's an _outing_!"

"It is what it is. Love ya, little sis!"

"Love ya back, big sis!" But when I hung up the phone, I had to wonder why Char kept saying "It is what it is." That phrase sounded like something Yoda might say and kind of made me uncomfortable to think about. This was absolutely not a date, not by any stretch of the imagination. I mean, Mohinder _is_ kind of cute, but he's probably in his late twenties. I mean, you pretty much have to be if you're a doctor, right? That takes at least four years for bachelors, plus four for masters, and then four more for doctorate…12 years…what's 18 plus 12? Jesus, I need to find my calculator for this! Oh my God! That equals THIRTY! He has to be at least thirty years old! I don't feel so good!

---

I woke up on the floor of my room with my phone (which I used as a calculator) near my outstretched right hand. As I slowly opened my eyes and gave my phone's display a look, I noticed that it still said 18 + 12 30 on it. I had to resist the urge to faint again. I fainted? I don't think I've ever fainted before in my life. That just seems so Victorian to me. "Oh dear, my corset is on too tight, I believe I need to go to my fainting couch!" You know? _So_ not 2006. Yet I did it anyway over the prospect of going on an outing with a 30-year-old.

I'm sure a lot of women my age would relish this opportunity. Char used to read _Cosmopolitan_ (for the fashion section, she told me, and we would have fun reading the sex advice in our biggest put-on voices) and so many issues talked about the younger-women-older-men type of relationship. Now that I think of it, every relationship I've had (including the botched attempt at starting one with Dylan) has been with someone older than me. I wonder if there's a reason for that.

I don't really feel like explaining this whole sordid situation to Mom, as receptive as she would probably be, because it makes me feel hella awkward and what if I faint again? So, I called up Angie again.

"_Hello, this is Angie_," she said in Spanish.

"Hi, Angie, it's Phoebe again. The weirdest thing happened to me!"

"What is it?"

"Well, I started wondering just how old Mohinder has to be if he's a doctor, so I added up four plus four plus four. Y'know, twelve years of schooling for the doctorate. The answer I found was startling."

"Startling?"

"So much so that I actually fainted. I woke up on my floor."

"Jesus God. What was this startling discovery?"

"Unless he's like some sort of genius that graduated from high school at the age of 12, he has to be at least 30 years old."

"Shut up!"

"I'm telling the truth!"

"I know, I know, that was just a knee-jerk response. Don't faint on me again, okay? Think about…think about…think about when Vincent had to go out with Mia in Pulp Fiction. Do you remember how he treated the situation?"

"I'm gonna sit across from her, chew my food with my mouth closed, laugh at her fucking jokes, and that's it," I recited from memory. I have pretty much all of Pulp Fiction memorized.

"Very good. Use that as your motto, your raison d'etre, during your outing tomorrow. Sit across from Mohinder, laugh at his jokes, make sure you chew with your mouth closed, and that's all you have to do. Just pretend he's a friend."

"That's all good advice, but I think I need another thing."

"What's that?"

"Well, I kinda don't want to tell Mom about this whole thing. Do you think it'd be okay if I changed clothes at your house and left from there?"

"Sure, it'd be fine."

"I'm coming at 4 tomorrow. That's pretty much after school. No, scratch that. We'll just go home normally from school, except that I'll make a pit stop at my house and pick up something to wear."

"Jesus God! That's a long time!"

"Well, the reservation is at 7. Char's making me promise to call her and put it on speakerphone when I figure out what to wear so she can help me accessorize it. I figure it'll take a while for me to gussy myself up and a little while for me to drive over there. I think that's a pretty good amount of time needed for the situation."

"You sure do have this all figured out."

"Maybe when I was floating between consciousness and unconsciousness, I had what alcoholics refer to as a moment of clarity."

"Maybe so. Tell you what. If you want your nails done or whatever, I can help you with that."

"You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." That means if Angie ever needs some sort of treatment like what I'm asking her for, I would be more than willing to give it to her. "See you tomorrow."

"See ya!" I hung up and, as I began walking down to Char's bedroom in order to do a preliminary search for a suitable dress, I realized Angie was completely right. I was blowing this whole thing way out of proportion. It was kind of like Vincent and Mia's outing in Pulp Fiction. Well, I hope that there aren't any overdoses in my case. I wonder if I could heal one like that.

To inspire me a little more, and because I love Quentin Tarantino's style of filmmaking, I decided to watch Pulp Fiction again.

---

"Okay, you're in my room."

"Correct, I am currently heading towards your closet. Major Angie is also with me."

"Why do I have to be the Major?"

"Because I'm the Captain! And Char is the Commander!" Angie and I were in Char's room, making a beeline for her closet, searching for something suitable that I could wear. I had already bookmarked a few dresses, all of which were hanging in their own little section so I could tell them apart. "Commander, I have already quarantined a selection of three dresses that have passed preliminary suitability tests. I am now obtaining these three dresses."

"Roger that." Angie held the phone for me while I gathered all three dresses.

"Requesting visual description of dresses."

"Roger. Dress number one is a navy blue Diane von Furstenburg wrap dress, providing a good amount of cleavage, with a little black ribbon for a belt."

"Copy that. Wrap dresses are always flattering. What is the status of dress number two?"

"Dress number two is your classic little black dress. It strongly resembles the dress worn by Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's."

"Classy. My advice is to pair that one with white pearls. As for dress number three?"

"Dress number three is blue silk with a pattern of flowers. It has a little blue purse with flowers on it slung over the hanger."

"That one would look absolutely gorgeous on you."

"Is the Commander suggesting I wear dress number three?"

"The Commander is suggesting such a thing. You might even say that I'm commanding it."

"10-4." I took the dress and spread it out on Char's bed. "Dress selected. Suggestions for accessories?"

"Keep the jewelry to a minimum. Wear the pearls Mom gave you for your birthday. That always looks really classy. There's a pair of blue shoes in my closet with little pink charms on them. I know pink isn't really in the dress, but that pink goes really well. They have heels on them. Are you up to the challenge?"

"I am up to the challenge."

"Wonderful. As for makeup, you want something dramatic because it's nighttime. I would recommend smoky gray eyes with black liner right at the lash lines and a lot of mascara to play up your really long eyelashes. A berry-colored lip gloss is good. No blush; it looks really unnatural and doll-like. Wear whatever fragrance you like. If it smells good, put it on."

"Roger that."

"Do you understand your mission?"

"10-4, I understand the mission."

"Will you have a camera available?"

"Yes." I made sure my camera was in my purse.

"Your mission guidelines are complete. Best of luck to you, Captain."

"Thank you for your guidance, Commander."

"My pleasure. Knock 'em dead. Love ya, little sis!"

"Love ya back, big sis!" I closed my phone and slipped it into my purse. "Okay! Let's go gussy me up."


	14. Fly Me to the Moon

14: Fly Me to the Moon

Note: This story is the inaugural Featured Story at Heroes Fiction! Yay! Also, I don't know what Bacchanalia really looks like because I've never been there, so I'm going to skimp on the visual descriptions of the place.

Also also, NBC is LAME for putting Heroes on an extended break. Just thought I'd put it out there.

Also x3: Pretty much _everything _I wrote in the little preview at the end of chapter 10 is changing…Most of it won't appear in the same context anymore…This is still a work in progress, I suppose.

My clothes sat in a heap on the floor of Angie's room as I fiddled with the zipper on the back of the dress (which, by the way, looked fabulous, just as Char predicted). No matter how hard I tried, it seemed that I just couldn't reach far enough to make the zipper go. In my struggle, I looked like a complete fool.

"Here," Angie said with a hint of exasperation, coming over and zipping me up.

"Thanks. If you hadn't done that, I would probably struggle with the zipper for another half hour." I sighed with relief.

"Of course you would!" Angie shouted. "I know you too well." She motioned to her makeup mirror. "Now go over there and get yo' makeup on." I nodded and took my seat before the mirror, spreading out my various brushes and powders as if they were instruments of war. I followed Char's instructions to a T, even with Angie standing behind me and shouting out vague advice, just like when I was playing Tetris. When I was sufficiently gussied up, Angie documented it on my camera with the promise to send the images to Char while I was gone.

"You better get going," Angie said, looking at her clock. "Now, remember what I told you. Follow Vincent's advice. Don't get too stressed out. Overall, go on out there and shine on, you crazy diamond." She patted my shoulder. "For what it's worth, you look fabulous."

"Gracias!" I chirped.

"De nada!" Angie chirped in reply. I gathered up my purse and exited Angie's house, humming an unknown tune as I got in my car. The directions, provided by Google Maps, were riding shotgun. When I reached a red light, I heard my phone singing from within my purse. Knowing that I had time (it's a five-way intersection, so it takes a while to get through), I dug through it and answered. Oh, I know that's bad. But if the light turns green, I'll just put it on speakerphone and tell my caller that I need to go. Who _is_ my caller, anyway?

Oh. It's Robbie.

Well, he's putting his life on the line by calling me, but I might as well answer.

"Hello?"

"Phoebe, hey."

"Hey. How are you?"

"Nervous as hell."

"Why?"

"I told Julia that we need to talk tonight. She's been too busy before now to talk with me."

"So, it's time to face the music, huh? To tell her to lay off the Phoebe-threatening a little?" Or maybe to break up with that bitch before she drives you insane?

"Exactly."

"Best of luck to you. I'm driving and the light's fixing to turn green…"

"I'm sorry. I'll let you go."

"Call me back when you get news, okay?"

"Okay."

I shut my phone the Jay Leno way (using only your chin) and kept on driving, occasionally exceeding the speed limit just a little. I know that's bad, but I just don't want to be late. Plus, speeders are never caught speeding in Atlanta unless they run a red light and there's a camera present. (The unofficial speed limit on the highway is really the highway's number, which pretty much means anything goes on 285.) That's only a minor sin. Maybe I'll only go to the first circle of Hell.

Sure enough, the parking lot of Bacchanalia was jam-packed with luxury sedans and SUVs. I think I saw a Maserati or two in there, a few Hummers and Navigators and the ilk, and a lot of those sporty things old guys buy when they want to feel young again. Needless to say, my poor Honda didn't fit in. Then again, neither did the blindingly white Ford Taurus parked in a hidden corner, festooned with the logo of Hertz car rentals.

I hoofed it to the doors, past the uniformed valet attendant, and stepped inside. Immediately, I was hit by a wave of normal restaurant noises, a stark change from the rhythm of my car. You know the type—the clatter of silverware, laughter (the high society kind, that little oh-ho-ho instead of normal laughter), stuff cooking in the kitchen, et cetera. In the corner, a little four-piece orchestra of two violins, a cello, and a bass were playing "Fly Me to the Moon," which I recognized from Evangelion. I didn't know where to go.

"Ma'am," an impossibly thin server suddenly said, jarring me from my confusion. "Ma'am, can I help you?"

"Oh, um," I replied, flustered. "I'm just looking for somebody." Surely they hear that all the time, right? I know, I know, don't call me Shirley.

"All right," said the server, stepping aside and allowing me entry into the dining room. I clutched my purse like it was my salvation, wandering around and hoping that nobody was staring at me. At least I was wearing something designer, right? Isn't that the way to get 'in' with this world? Not that I want to or anything. As soon as I get home, it's off with the couture and on with the pajamas.

"Phoebe!" I heard Mohinder call out. Immediately, I looked around like a prairie dog out of its hole, trying to find him, although it was totally obvious where he was. You know how the stereotypical college professor dresses? Corduroy blazer, button-up shirt, khaki pants? Yep, that was him.

"Hi!" I said cheerfully, sitting down across the booth from him. "Am I late?"

"Not at all," he replied. "I've been waiting to order."

"Well, thank you, that's very polite." I reached for the menu, which was printed on heavy card stock and bound with a fat gold tassel. Upon opening it, I suddenly realized as my stomach sank that perhaps I should have brought Angie along with me. Everything seemed to be in French or Italian, not English. "Oh my God, I have no idea what to order."

"What do you like?"

"Pardon?"

"What kind of food do you like? Chicken, fish, beef…?"

"Um, I'll try just about anything, but I do like salmon. Is there something salmon on here? I'm sorry, I'm just not used to eating at places like these." I think I was blushing from embarrassment.

"That's fine. There's something with the word salmon in it on page 3." That is so college professor—they tell you about knowledge, but you have to do the hard work of finding it yourself. I turned the menu to page 3 and indeed, I saw something with the word salmon in it. The only problem was that it was listed as $30. I know I'm not paying for it, but this had better be the best salmon to ever grace the planet Earth.

Our extra-chirpy server came and rattled off a list of special dishes. I was amazed that she could remember all of their complicated names and descriptions (what on Earth is a reduction?), but I think I disappointed her by not ordering one of them and settling on my Incredibly Expensive Salmon Dish instead. I gave her a little apologetic grin along with my menu after she took my order. Mohinder ordered some sort of complicated veggie-only dish and the extra-chirpy server walked away, her ponytail swishing behind her.

"I feel totally out of place here," I commented, slouching for a moment before reminding myself that this probably isn't a slouching kind of establishment and re-straightening my posture. "My sort of place is more like the Varsity."

"What's that?"

"Excuse me? You're in Atlanta and don't know what the Varsity is? Jesus. We should be there instead. It's an Atlanta institution. It's just fast food, but it's different from McDonalds and its ilk because it was started by a guy who dropped out of Georgia Tech, it serves the _best_ milkshakes ever, there's a drive-in, and the workers all have this really intricate lingo for the various dishes. If only we hadn't already ordered our extremely expensive food, we could go there…"

"The customer is always right, correct?"

"Um, yeah. Why?"

"We can cancel our orders."

"You serious?" I started searching for our extra-chirpy server, who would probably retain her chirpiness, even with this challenge.

"Sure. Can you tell me where the Varsity is?"

"Sure. It's on North Avenue, just across the street from Georgia Tech. It's near the CNN Center, Centennial, the aquarium and all of that. It's a huge restaurant—it takes up two city blocks. You can't miss it." Wow. Going from Bacchanalia to the Varsity. That's like a day and night comparison. I need to be careful not to spill ketchup or anything on this dress—Char would murder me.

Our extra-chirpy server returned and gleefully obeyed Mohinder's request to cancel our order. Her chirpiness was grating by this point, which was good because the Varsity workers are completely different. They're passionate about their jobs, too, but they express it by asking "What'll ya have?" so fast that it initially sounds like a jumbled mess of syllables.

"If you get lost, just call me," I said as we walked into the parking lot. I searched for the outline of my car, feeling reassured when I found it. (That's just something I always do.)

"I don't have your number."

"Oh, right, I forgot." I rattled my number off before hopping into my car, shooting off quick text messages to Angie and Char that notified them of the change of venue. A minute later, I got a reply from Angie that just said "WTF?!" I think I'll explain to her when the night is over, after I've had a frosted orange shake (also known as an F.O.) and an order of onion rings (also known as Ring One).

---

The Varsity has many different dining rooms with helpful signs posted outside that tell you what station the TV within is tuned to and if smoking is allowed or not. Inside, the dining rooms have a sort of 50's classroom décor featuring rows of desks and brightly-colored tile. The TV sits anchored in a corner and most patrons simply gaze up at it while eating. I selected the CNN room.

"Sorry they don't have much vegetarian stuff," I said apologetically as I tried to balance my Ring One and F.O. on my plastic tray. I carefully sat down at one of the desks, which, ironically, is the same kind of desk we use at school.

"It's all right. The décor will more than make up for it."

I grabbed a big red bottle of ketchup and squeezed a pool of it out beside my rings, then tried to take a sip of my frosted orange. It was still too thick to drink through my puny little straw. A question I pondered earlier floated back into my mind while I tried to coerce the shake forth into my mouth and I decided to ask it.

"So," I asked as I dunked one of my rings in the red pool. "How old are you?" He chuckled, completely unaware that it was a serious question.

"I'm 26," he answered. Huh. So he's not 30 after all. I fainted for nothing. "How old are _you_?" Turning the question back on the asker! Very nice form.

"18," I muttered to my rings. I counted in my head—now there's only 8 years between us. Right? "I was just wondering," I added as an afterthought. Then, in order to assuage any perceived awkwardness, I decided to deftly change subjects. "So, tell me again what you do for a living. I'm curious."

Oh boy. This guy _really_ likes to talk about his profession. I mean, not that that's a bad thing. If he worked in some lousy field like, I don't know, shoe sales, then it would have been an exercise in boredom for me to sit there and listen to about half an hour of shop talk. However, I'm dealing with one of the leading researchers on just how the hell I have the ability to heal people. Listening to him talk was…it was fascinating. It really opened my eyes a little more than before.

And it was a hard act to follow.

"I have a general-level economics class," I said meekly. "And an AP literature class. Back to back." I then had to explain the distinction between AP, general, and IB-level courses. I talked a little more about the high school experience in general, but it seemed so trite and stupid compared to "hey, these are the genetic building blocks that give you your powers." Maybe Mohinder was humoring me by being interested in my talk or maybe he was being genuine. Either way, I was having a great time. Then, my cell phone rang.

"I'm really sorry, but I think I should take this," I said in embarrassment, pointing to my purse.

"Go ahead." With the green-light given, I retrieved my phone and saw that Robbie was calling. Well, I did ask him to give me an update, so it was okay to take the call.

"Hello?" I asked.

"Phoebe," Robbie said weakly.

"At your service," I said jokingly. He was breathing with difficulty. "Um, are you okay?"

"No. I'm not."

"Try to calm down a little, then tell me what's up."

"Okay." There was a little pause. "Julia and I had our talk, like I was telling you, and…"

"And?"

"And it didn't go very well."

"What's wrong?"

"We broke up. She was getting too controlling. Did you know she was going to call my phone company and specifically tell them to block your number?"

"That crazy ho!" I barked, garnering the attention of the other diners. "Who the _hell_ does she think she is?"

"That's basically what I asked her. She didn't take that question very well."

"Well, what happened?"

"She beat the shit out of me. Fucked my face up pretty badly, too. Lots of bruises and cuts. It's pretty nasty."

"I can imagine."

"If it's not too much trouble, can you come over here and heal me? I'm afraid that, if I seek conventional medical aid, they'll have to give me plastic surgery to fix my face and I really can't afford that."

"Sure, Robbie. I'll come over. I'm at the Varsity right now, but I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Thank you, Phoebe."

"You're welcome." I shut my phone. "I'm sorry, Mohinder, but I have to go. One of my friends got in a really bad fight and needs my services." I lowered my voice. "I think you know what I'm saying." He nodded. "Thanks for dinner. I had a great time. I wish you well in your research. Have a good time in Atlanta. If you get lost on the way back to your hotel, call me. And all of that good stuff."

"Thank you too, Phoebe. I'll stay in touch."

"Great!" I grabbed my F.O.—it's not empty yet—and my purse, stood up, took my tray to the trash can, and waved goodbye as I left the CNN room. Then, I walked with determination through the rest of the restaurant, reached my car, and set off on North Avenue before realizing that I don't know where Robbie lives.

---

One on-road phone call (I am getting bad about that, even though I keep the call on speakerphone whenever I'm driving) and a fair bit of driving later, I arrived at Robbie's complex. He lives in a pretty nice apartment complex—the buildings are in good condition, there's no suspicious activity going on that I can see, and I was buzzed through a gate to get in. I spent a fair bit of time squinting in an attempt to find the microscopic signs that mark which building is which before I found the right one. _Then_ I had to climb a flight of stairs and knock on the correct door.

There wasn't much of a pause between my knock and Robbie's answer, but when I saw him, I couldn't help but gasp in pure shock. His face _was_ fucked up and there's honestly no better way to describe it, vulgar as that particular description may be. He had a black eye that was struggling to stay open, a bloodied lip, and what appeared to be very deep fingernail scratches down both of his cheeks. Handprints around his neck were a telltale sign of attempted strangulation, his shirt was torn and bloodied, and his arms were a mess.

"Jesus God," I whispered.

"Why are you all dressed up?" he asked weakly.

"Long story," I said hastily, walking inside. "I hope I can heal all of that." I took a look around his apartment and realized that I had never been in it before. "Nice place." It _was_ nice. He had good taste in furniture and design, though I'm sure most of his stuff was from IKEA. Not that that's bad or anything—I love IKEA.

"Thanks," he said, slumping down onto his couch. There was an ice pack nearby that I assumed he put over his eye.

"I'll do my best to heal this," I said as a disclaimer while I sat down next to him. "I'll need, like, extra strength to do it." I sighed, trying to relax, and did a few little stretches, like I was preparing to run the Peachtree instead of preparing to heal some pretty deep wounds. I said a little prayer and wondered what the best course of touching would be. Usually, I put my hand on their arm, but both of Robbie's arms were too gross for me to touch. His hands, though a little roughed-up, were not as bad, so I decided to hold both of his hands.

Thank God that I began to feel the tingle.

"So," he said, watching his wounds disappear. "Why _are_ you dressed up, anyway?"

"Well, I went to an outing that was originally at Bacchanalia, but then I was all like 'this is lame' and went to the Varsity instead."

"An outing? With whom?"

"Ah, you don't know him."

"_Him_, huh? You were out with a guy?"

"And what of it? We were just chatting. He's from India. I thought he needed to experience the Varsity."

"Make excuses all you want to."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, laughing nervously.

"You were on a date, huh?"

"No, I wasn't." I was trying to be firm, but I knew I was turning red. "Shut up or I'll stop healing you—and you _really_ need healing."

"Damn, I was hurt that badly?"

"Oh God, yes. I've seen Fight Club and your wounds are worse than the ones in it." I paused to let that reference sink in. "So, it's over between you and Julia, huh?"

"Irrevocably so. I have reason to believe she was cheating on me, too."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She was trying to control everything about me, especially anything that had to do with you."

"Why is that? Did she see me as a threat?"

"Probably. I mean, you _are_ cute and everything…"

"Stop it!" I was growing redder.

"Especially when you blush like that." I stopped looking away from Robbie and looked up at him right as his black eye healed up.

"What's that supposed to mean?" I asked, my voice dropping to just above a whisper.

"Maybe it's supposed to mean that I never got over you, even though I tried."

"_What_?"

"Phoebe, you were—and still are—like no other woman I've ever been with. There's just something about you. You have a je ne sais quoi that nobody else has or ever will have. I wanted to have another woman with that, but it's becoming clearer now that I can't. Women like Julia are like huge, blazing signals trying to tell me that getting over you is clearly a futile endeavor at best."

"Robbie, are you trying to say what I think you're trying to say?"

"I don't know. I can't read minds. What do you think I'm trying to say?"

"Um, that you want to go out with me again? Maybe?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"I guess?"

"It seems like you're asking a lot of questions. I'll give you a definite answer." I'm lucky that his bloody lip healed right after his eye or else this would have been very uncomfortable. His answer to my questions was to kiss me—deeply, passionately, in a different way than when we used to go out. He was longing for me and, to be honest, I was longing for him.

"Wow," I whispered when we separated.

"Does that answer your questions?"

"I think it does."

"By the way, you look beautiful in that dress."

"Thanks. It's Char's." The last of Robbie's wounds healed up. "I think you're okay now."

"Yeah, I am. Thank you, Phoebe. For the healing, and…" He trailed off. "I'm happy that I get another chance to be with you."

"I…" I trailed off too. "I, um, I don't know what to say."

"It's okay, you don't have to say anything."

"I should probably get home now. I'll call you tomorrow…"

"Okay, I'll let you go. Thanks again, Phoebe."

"You're welcome…"

---

Everything felt like a dream. When I returned to Angie's house to put my street clothes back on and she asked how everything went, I was at a loss. How could I begin to explain going from Bacchanalia with the chirpy server to the Varsity with the what'll ya have and watching CNN and there's Anderson Cooper coming on next then the phone rings and that crazy ho over to the apartment with the gates _Jesus God_ … _I was hurt that badly_? Over to the couch where our hands intertwined followed by a Hollywood kiss it was everything I ever wanted yet that sounded so trite and anti-feminist of me to say 'everything I ever wanted' had to come from a man…

I needed to sleep on it.

"I'll tell you tomorrow," I said groggily as I slipped back into my normal shoes. "G'night." Angie looked slightly confused as I left, but she shouldn't be because I _am_ going to tell her tomorrow, for real. I just need to think about things for a night or so.


	15. The Worst Dream is Reality

Chapter 15: The Worst Dream is Reality

Note: I was planning on writing a Christmas chapter and stuff but then I realized that I really needed to get to this incredibly juicy plot point. I still mention Christmas here, but it doesn't take the spotlight anymore. Trust me, this plot point is _juicy_.

Christmas came and passed in the normal way that Christmases do: draped in fake snow and icicle lights (because Georgia is devoid of real snow and ice, we make do with alternatives), stuffed with great cookies, loaded with family and friends, and garnished with presents. I was able to spend time with friends, family (including Char), and even Robbie…though not so much with him because his family lives out in Seattle and he stayed there through the New Year. Plus, I was out of school, which is always a good thing. I think 2007 is shaping up to be my lucky year. Well, it _is_ my graduation year, after all.

January was unusually warm for Georgia, with high temperatures in the sixties. It felt more like March. I figure it's all due to global warming. I mean, I've seen the polar bear on a melting iceberg picture, I've seen An Inconvenient Truth, and I do what I can to reduce my carbon footprint…but I must admit, I'm enjoying this. I don't have to bundle up and venture out into the cold with my heavy coat on, like the kid in A Christmas Story. Now, I just go out with a hoodie on and that's all I need.

Robbie ended up staying a little longer in Seattle and returned in the middle of my first week back at school, which was a drag for me because I kind of wanted to do the whole couple-reuniting-at-the-airport thing. You know what I'm talking about. One half of the couple has a cute little sign and waits behind the ropes for the other half to emerge from their terminal. When the couple sees each other, they're both supposed to drop everything and race to the middle for a big bear hug and a deep kiss. Then I guess they pick up their belongings and walk hand-in-hand to the baggage carousels.

"You're daydreaming again, aren't you?" Angie asked gruffly, snapping me out of my couple-reuniting-at-the-airport daydream while we sat in AP English, toughing our way through an intense "here are the errors people tend to make in essays, so let's learn how to correct them" session. Currently, we were on the ever-exciting _apostrophe_! How do you manage to misuse the apostrophe in the most sinful ways (like your's instead of yours, et cetera) and still make it into an AP class?

"Maybe," I said defensively. "It's more exciting than the apostrophe."

"Dude, apostrophes are our friends," Angie joked. "No lie."

"Yeah, I made friends with the apostrophe in the third grade," I replied, rolling my eyes. "I mean, I learned to use these things when I was eight. Now I'm eighteen and I'm getting the same lessons."

"Tell me about it." Angie paused. "You and Robbie going to do anything this weekend?"

"I dunno. We'll think of something. Until then, can you manage to remember where the apostrophe goes in relation to a name like Bains?"

"God, I don't know if I can! Oh no! Who am I? Where am I? Who are _you_?"

I think we got the hairy eyeball for laughing, but it was worth it.

---

Because the temperatures were still hovering around the sixties on Saturday, I decided it would be cool to go down to Medlock Park. Medlock was a childhood mainstay for me because I used to live right down the street and walk over there all the time. It has some fields for Little League teams, a pretty nice swimming pool, a white building that used to sell the best assortment of candy, and two playgrounds. One's smaller and aimed more at very small children, while the other is larger and intended for elementary-aged kids.

I got there a few minutes before the 11 AM meeting time I set, so I seated myself on a bench near the playground and took in my surroundings. Near me, pleading for a chance to go play on the 'big kids' playground' because she was now the ripe old age of four, was an absolutely adorable little girl. She was wearing a lilac-colored princess dress coupled with the kind of fairy wings you can buy at Renaissance Festivals and a pair of tiny purple Chuck Taylors. I like this girl's style!

Her mother was trying to usher her back to the 'little kids' playground,' which admittedly paled in comparison. The big kids' one has a Tic-Tac-Toe board, a spiral slide, a fireman's pole, and one of those swinging bridges. The little kids' one just has two tiny non-spiral slides.

"Come on, Jessica honey, you're not big enough to play on the big kids' playground yet," her mother said sweetly, taking Jessica by the hand and moving her back to the little kids' area. Pouting, Jessica reluctantly submitted to the inferior playground and I laughed because that was probably how I acted when I was little.

"It's good to hear you laughing again," Robbie said out of the blue, coming up behind me.

"Jesus, you scared me," I commented breathlessly as I stood up, whirled around, and did my best to re-create the couple-reuniting-at-the-airport, hoping that Jessica wasn't watching because I sure didn't like seeing kissing when I was four.

"I think I missed that most of all," Robbie said with a smile once I let go of him.

"How was Seattle?" I immediately queried. I've never been to Seattle, but I'd love to go if only to visit the original Starbucks.

"Cold and rainy," Robbie replied, shrugging. "I got you something."

"Ooh, a present?" I asked, squeaking slightly.

"It's not much, but…" He revealed a bag of Starbucks House Roast coffee. "It's from the very first Starbucks."

"Sweet!" I said, sniffing the bag. "Mmm, smells awesome. Let me go put it in my car real quick." I hurriedly did so, but not before sniffing the bag again. Coffee just smells so good that I can't help taking a whiff every once in a while.

"God, I'm so tired," Robbie complained, slouching on the bench. "Since I've been back, the boss has been on my nuts about all the work I missed."

"He-ey, watch your mouth. There's a little girl here," I replied, sliding down next to him and putting my arm around him.

"Sorry. The boss has been _worried_ about all the work I missed. I literally had two hundred e-mails waiting for me and all these phone calls I had to attend to."

"Being a lawyer's hard work, huh?" I asked.

"Paralegal. I'm not a lawyer yet."

"Potato, _potato_," I replied. "You still deal with law, don't you?"

"Yeah…"

"Then you're a lawyer. It's like how if it's a soft drink and it's not beer, you call it Coke down here."

"Some nomenclature."

"You tell me. Do you wanna walk around for a while? Maybe go back to the creek?" I used to play in the creek all the time until the suggestion that it was too polluted came around. After that, as Jon Stewart might say, ehh…not so much.

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather just sit here and relax with you."

"That sounds good to me, too." I allowed him to rest his head on my shoulder and I kept watching Jessica, who was now tiring of the little kids' slides and decided to go towards the swings. The little kids' swings are all the kind where an adult has to put the kid in and out of them for safety, so Jessica summoned her mother, who placed her in the leftmost swing. She began pushing Jessica, who locked eyes with me as soon as she saw me. I smiled at her and she smiled back. As she went higher and higher into the air, she looked at me as if to say 'Watch this,' braced herself, and leapt right out of that swing. I gasped, fearing that she would fall and get hurt (or die), but instead she began to fly up above the swings.

"Is she flying?" I heard Robbie mutter sleepily.

"She _is_ flying," I replied.

Jessica soared above the swings, flew towards the big kids' playground, and did a little somersault in the air. The entire time she did this, her mother had the biggest, brightest grin on her face that I've ever seen. Clearly, she knew this was going to happen, or maybe she'd seen it done before. I thought it was slightly ironic that Jessica was wearing fairy wings, what with her ability to fly and all, but as I watched her flutter around above the twin playgrounds, I felt like a happy, free little kid again.

Jessica was making her way back to her mother again when it happened. Out of nowhere (though I now think someone came from behind, perhaps from a car in the parking lot), I was jarred from my kid moment by three staccato gunshots, each of which made me jump up out of my seat. As soon as the third shot rang out, Jessica shrieked and fell to the ground.

"Oh my God," I whispered. I got up—Robbie can get his own damn head up—and raced to Jessica's side, meeting up with her mother.

"Jessica?" her mother called out. "Jessica! JESSICA!" I took a look at Jessica's body to see where the three shots hit. Oh God, they all hit her in the stomach area. Her pretty lilac dress was turning a nasty shade of red from the blood loss.

"Mommy?" Jessica answered weakly, struggling to keep her eyes open.

"Ma'am, go call 911. I'll stay with Jessica," I offered. "I may be able to help her."

"You can?" her mother asked me.

"I'll see what I can do," I said humbly. Her mother nodded at me, opened her purse, and whipped out a cell phone. "Robbie! Can you see the gunman or anything?" Robbie looked around for signs of anything suspicious, but he saw nothing.

"No," he shouted.

"Damn…" I whispered before remembering Jessica was right there. "Um…" I turned to her. "Hi, Jessica, my name's Phoebe. I'm going to stay with you for a little while, okay?"

"Where's Mommy?" Jessica asked.

"She's calling some people," I said, deciding not to mention that she was calling 911. "So," I began, laying my hands on Jessica's arms. "How old are you?" I know this already, but I figure it's a good ice-breaker.

"Four."

"Wow, that's great!" I said with enthusiasm as I waited for the tingle to start. When it didn't start immediately, I began panicking a little, but I had to hide it from this little girl, so I continued with the small talk. "I just turned eighteen."

"Wow," Jessica said in awe.

"I know!" I exclaimed. Come on, dammit, where's that tingle?! "So, um, what's your favorite…color?"

"Purple."

"I thought so! Now, what about…food?"

"Cookies."

"Wow, me too!" Hello, tingle, this is Phoebe. I'd like for you to COME OVER TO MY HANDS NOW!!! There's a little girl with three frickin' gunshot wounds over here, in case you didn't know!

"A-am I gonna be okay? I don't feel good."

"Yes, you're going to be okay." But I was lying. I was already crying by this time because a) the tingle still wasn't there, so it was probably never coming, and b) Jessica is far too adorable to be hurt like this. "Hey, I like your fairy wings."

"Thank you. My mommy got them for me."

"They're very pretty. Do they help you fly?"

"No. I do that by myself."

"You do? That's really neat. I wish I could do that. I can't do anything special." Lie. Usually, I can heal, but right now…

The ambulance tore into the parking lot. I guess there's an advantage to being right near Emory (which also contains Children's Healthcare of Atlanta)—the ambulance got here incredibly quickly. As two EMTs emerged from the ambulance with a stretcher and came to pick up Jessica, I had to let go of her arms.

"Don't cry, Phoebe. I'm gonna be okay," Jessica told me while the EMTs secured her onto her stretcher. Biting back even more tears, I nodded at her. She managed a smile, and I noticed one of her teeth was missing, before she disappeared into the back of the ambulance.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," her mother said, weeping, as she followed. But what was she thanking me for? I wasn't able to heal Jessica.

"Do you want to follow them?" Robbie suddenly asked, coming up from behind me (again!) and hugging me backwards.

"Y-yes, I do," I replied shakily. Robbie could tell that I was too traumatized to drive, so he helped me into his BMW and we set off after the ambulance. I sat staring straight ahead at its back, where there was a stylized image of a little girl and boy, holding hands, waving, as if to portray the hospital as a happy, cheery place. I could only imagine what was going on inside that ambulance and it was all too horrifying to think about.

"I couldn't heal her," I confessed as we pulled into the parking lot at Children's Healthcare, which, strangely enough, is right by my school. "I couldn't heal her."

---

Robbie sat in the waiting room, grilling Jessica's mom to see if she knew anything about Jessica's assailant, while I gazed at the wall. There wasn't anything particularly interesting about that wall—it was painted bland beige and was unadorned by posters or artwork. I read that doctors put prints of Monet in their waiting rooms to relax their patients. This place needs some Monets like right away. As I stared at the wall, I was really off in space, thinking about the last thing Jessica said to me and the smile she gave me. She was probably hurting something awful, but instead of crying or complaining or anything, she tolerated my small talk. In truth, I admired her strength.

Just as Robbie was advising Jessica's mom to call the police as soon as possible and slipping her the business card from his firm, a doctor emerged from within the hospital. We all stopped what we were doing and gazed up at him, waiting for news of Jessica's condition. I crossed my fingers, arms, and legs and prayed for good news. Hell, even critical condition could be good news because, if her attitude was any prediction, she could make it through.

"I'm sorry…" The doctor didn't have to say anything else, although he did. He explained that Jessica's wounds were just too severe, she was just too young to survive trauma like that, and that she fought hard up until the last moment of her life, but she was gone. Immediately, Jessica's mom let out a bloodcurdling scream and broke down. The doctor tried to comfort her, but I already knew that was in vain. Sometimes, you just have to let someone cry, which is exactly what I began to do. I mourned that beautiful little girl, even though I only knew her for a few minutes, and I could literally feel a little piece of my heart breaking when I learned today was her birthday.

Yes, her birthday. This little girl had been murdered in cold blood on her fourth _birthday_. This was way too fucked-up. I couldn't let this go unpunished. I decided to call a few news outlets and give them a scoop to work on, so I found a phone book (411 costs money) and began making some calls. The AJC reporter (I called them first) that answered my call helped calm me down a little bit so I could explain the story. By the time I finished my media calls, I had the story down pat.

We went back to the park, Jessica's mom riding with us, and stood around waiting for the media to appear.

"I gave her those wings for her birthday," Jessica's mom muttered. "They took my fairy princess away from me. I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna kill them. Yes, they stole her away. So I'm gonna steal them away."

I stood still like a statue, staring off into the distance again, remembering the exact moment when Jessica was shot.

"Hey. Are you okay?" Robbie asked, taking my hand in his.

"No," I answered honestly.

"Me neither." He paused. "Did you see who did it?"

"No. And I couldn't even help her. I'm worthless."

"No, you're not worthless."

"Yes, I am. I couldn't heal her. I didn't see who did it. All I did was try to comfort her while she died, but anyone could've done that. Therefore, I'm worthless."

"I repeat, you're not worthless." He held me tight until the media vans arrived and reporters stormed the scene, some armed with cameras and others with digital voice recorders to take down sound bites with. "Here comes the media barrage," he warned. "Remember, we're both witnesses to a crime now."

"Shit, we are?" I asked. Robbie nodded to me right as that same Connie Chung look-alike from the protest approached me. She shoved a microphone into my face and asked me a question, something like "What happened here?" I sighed and began to explain everything I saw, knowing fairly well that my sweaty, crying face was going to be plastered across the evening news. This disturbed me.

I repeated myself for every reporter there. Each time I told my story, I saw Jessica there. I saw her soaring freely in the air. I saw how she wanted to go to the big kids' playground. I saw the smile she gave me. I saw her and I didn't want to forget seeing her. I never want to forget that little girl's beautiful face.

---

I found myself at the police station on Hosea Williams Drive again, but this time I wasn't in the holding cell. This time, I was telling my story to an officer while another one was busy drawing a composite sketch based on details provided by Jessica's mom. By now, I could've told my story backwards and in my sleep. It was second nature. I was so numb from shock (I guess) that I had trouble describing how I was feeling—or feeling anything at all.

Jessica Rachel Gray. Born 01-13-2003. Died 01-13-2007. Age 4. Female. Multiple gunshot wounds.

I didn't want to remember Jessica by that sterile, bland information alone. I wanted to remember the good stuff I knew about her—her love for purple and fairies, her ability to fly, her boundless strength. How do people remember other people who have been killed? Sometimes, they wear shirts or black armbands, like in the Tinker case. I remember learning about that in US History. Maybe I could do that. I'll go by Michael's and pick up some black fabric later.

Sometimes, they also get tattoos…

Are you pondering what I'm pondering?


	16. A Sleepless Night

Chapter 16: A Sleepless Night

Note: This chapter's kinda short because it takes place on just one night…

I went to bed that night. Well, I _tried_ to go to bed, anyway, but I found myself unable to sleep. My clock, with its green luminescent numbers, the one that usually reassures me with knowledge that I can sleep in sometimes, became my enemy. I stared it down and it stared me down, its numbers glowing and glowering at me. I closed my eyes again as my clock ticked over to midnight and remembered.

---

After I went to Michael's that day and tied a swatch of black fabric to my upper right arm, I had to explain myself to Mom. I wanted to try and keep my composure while I was explaining myself, but I just couldn't—I broke down as soon as I retold the part about Jessica being shot at. Mom cried too, and she hugged me, and she asked if I wanted to try a therapist again. I went to one for a little while after she and Dad divorced. But right now, I'm not sure of anything.

I found myself short of appetite that night. Instead of wasting time, effort, and food on actually cooking a meal, I just ate a few measly cookies and went off to my room, where I searched Google News to see who was covering the Jessica story and had another tab open for asking about what tattoo parlors are the best for memorial tattoos.

Good God—this story's _international_ news. It's spread clear out of the metro Atlanta area and all the way across the sea to Japan, England…I'm sure there were other countries, too, but I felt overwhelmed and depressed again, so I closed that tab and went over to the tattoo tab instead, asked my question, and hit Post. While I waited for the replies to roll in, I went and checked out the AEBA forums again. I probably shouldn't have done that because, of course, the top story was Jessica. A thread about her story was just bursting with replies and I didn't read a single one. It would just hurt too much.

I wonder if any of the replies mention me…

I decided to play some Tetris and wait for tattoo advice to roll in. While Tetris loaded, I drew a design for a tattoo on a piece of printer paper. First, at the top, in cursive, would be Jessica Rachel Gray. Then, I'd put the day of birth and day of death. In the middle, between the two lines of words…How about a little fairy with purple wings? It could look like she did.

Then, as I shaded in the wings on the fairy I was drawing to show that I wanted them purple, I heard the soft chime that heralded an e-mail. It was a reply to my tattoo question and it recommended some parlor called Comfort Eagle.

"Comfort Eagle is a great choice for a first-timer like you. Their prices are affordable, but the work quality is excellent, the artists are friendly, and they'll do their darndest to make the whole experience comfortable for you," said the commenter. They also gave the address and phone number of the parlor. Hm, it's on Moreland Avenue, so it's in the Little 5 Points area. I took down the address and number and immediately gave them a call.

"Comfort Eagle," a female voice answered.

"Uh, um, hi, I want to get my first tattoo and I was recommended to your parlor…What all do I have to do?"

"You need to come in for a consultation with one of our artists. If you have a drawing or a concept for your tattoo, bring that in and we can work from it. If you're not artistically-inclined, we can flesh out the drawing or concept and make it great."

"Oh, I have a drawing."

"Perfect. So, when do you want to come in?"

"Is tomorrow possible?"

"Let me check…Yes, it is. Is tomorrow at noon okay for you?"

"It's great!" I wrote 'tomorrow at noon' down on a Post-It note. "We'll discuss price and whatnot then, right?"

"Yes, pricing will be discussed. I'll find an artist that's good with first-timers to assist you."

"Thanks a lot, I really appreciate this."

"It's no problem. See you tomorrow!"

"See you then!"

I wonder if the tattoo will hurt. Maybe I'll be able to just heal myself again. I also wonder how much it costs—sure, I have a job, but I'm not exactly breaking the bank. Maybe the work won't be terribly expensive, and even if it is, I can just abstain from little luxuries for a while until I re-earn the money.

I still need to tell Angie and Char about this…

---

Two teary phone calls later, Angie and Char knew everything there was to know about Jessica and I still felt profoundly depressed. I took to trolling around the AEBA forums again, finding the thread about Jessica, and reading every single one of the replies. Most expressed condolences for the poor little girl, but some people also wondered what kind of sick freak would murder someone like that. I was never explicitly mentioned, so I decided to drop in my own two cents.

Hey guys,

I'm the witness that they talk about in this story. Yep, I'm Phoebe Reid. I stayed by Jessica's side while she died. It was probably the most surreal thing that's ever happened to me, partly because I have powers that would usually save people from things like this. I tried my hardest to heal that poor little girl, but my powers just wouldn't work that day and I'm not exactly sure why. I'm confused by that and depressed by the situation as a whole. I wish I could have saved her. Her face haunts me.

What's going to happen in the future? Will they catch her killer? Will Jessica become a symbol, a martyr for our cause? Will representatives from the media start calling my house asking for interviews? The only thing I know for sure is that the world is short one fairy princess today—and that I'm going to fight for her because I saw her at the end of her tragically short life.

If any of y'all want to talk to me about this privately, here's my e-mail address.

Thanks for hearing me out.

Literally as soon as I posted my response, e-mails began pouring in. One of them was asking me if I was really Phoebe Reid. I guess I expected this, so I answered honestly. If they don't believe me, they can suck my (metaphorical) left one. Many others expressed condolences, just like on the forum. While I was pleased this outpouring of emotion by total strangers, I was still depressed, so I decided to try and call it a night early.

---

12:00 came and went and I was awake as ever, glaring at my clock. Dammit. My cell phone sat nearby and I'm not exactly sure what possessed me to do this (because I'm never on the phone this late), but I reached over and flipped it open, pawing through my contacts list until I found Robbie. I commanded my phone to dial him and listened to the ringing sound, hoping that he would answer so I'd at least have someone to talk to. I was just composing what I would say into the voicemail when he did the unexpected—he answered the phone.

"Hello?" he asked groggily.

"Oh, shit. I woke you up, didn't I?" I asked, feeling guilty.

"Kind of. I'm not really asleep yet. What's wrong, honey?" He called me honey. I believe that's the first time he's ever called me that. I have to admit I liked it…

"I just can't sleep. Whenever I try to, I just—I just _can't_." I ran my hand through my hair nervously. "I'm really stressed about it."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I'll try to help you as best as I can."

"Thanks."

"Hey, did I tell you that I've been thinking about reforming the band?"

"No…wouldn't you have to wait until whenever Char comes home, though?"

"Not necessarily, not when I'm currently talking to an incredibly talented singer."

"Oh, hush. I'm not that good."

"Are you kidding? I've heard you before, when you think nobody is listening. _That's _when you let loose with the best singing of all. High notes, low notes, you hit them all. Your voice kinda reminds me of a young Diana Ross…"

"Diana Ross? Like the Supremes? Get outta here. I don't sound like her."

"But you do. And you have a strong voice. You would do well singing with us. We could just do some small gigs, like old times. There wouldn't be any intercity touring, just shows in Atlanta. And of course, you'd get a cut of the payment from each show. We generally split the payment four ways. What do you think?"

"Let me sleep on it."

"Very funny."

"I don't know. I'll think about it. Would there be a lot of screaming?"

"Not unless you want there to be a lot of screaming."

"Char does screaming better than I do. That's never really been my bag. Y'all still do cover songs?"

"Yeah, unless you want to write some of your own."

"I'm gonna pass on that. I don't know how to write music. Chord progressions and scales and all of that—that's not my bag, either."

"That's okay, too. Hey, maybe we could rock-ize a Supremes song for you."

"If you want to. Do you really think I have a good voice?"

"Yes, I do, Phoebe. Please at least consider singing with us. It would make me really happy."

"I'll do it."

"You will?"

"Yeah, I'll do it. It'll be fun, right?"

"Of course! And if you ever decide you don't like it, you can always step back out. We always like having a happy vocalist, not an angry, bitter vocalist. I'll also make sure the other guys don't rag on you too much for being my girlfriend." _My girlfriend_. It's been a long time since I've heard a guy say that about me. "Thank you so much, Phoebe."

"You're welcome."

"You sound a little tired. Do you want to try going to sleep again?"

"Maybe I will." I pulled my bedsheets up around my neck. "Thanks for keeping me company."

"You're welcome." His voice sounded so calming. Maybe it was helping me feel like sleeping again.

"Goodnight," I said sleepily.

"Goodnight," he replied. I pressed the hang-up button on my phone and managed to close it before I turned over in my bed and closed my eyes. This time, sleep came easily to me. That's better.

Weirdly enough, though, I kept having these dreams that I was someone like Gwen Stefani (before she defected from No Doubt to write such schlock as "Hollaback Girl"), who was mad famous for singing and married to a hot celebrity guy who was _also_ mad famous for singing. I bet you can't possibly guess who the hot celebrity guy was in my dream.

At least I was finally able to sleep so I could be coherent at my tattoo consultation the next day, right?


	17. For Jessica

Chapter 17: For Jessica…

I think I was the most stoic client that Comfort Eagle Tattoo Parlor has ever had. Because of my abilities, I was able to sit up straight in the tattoo chair and read _Creative Loafing_ while my artist, a punk-y girl named Clarissa, transferred my idea to my skin. This was only after a consultation wherein Clarissa took my idea and beefed it up, adding shading and definition to the fairy, selecting a really cool cursive font for the words, and adding "Never Forget" on either side of the fairy, something I never thought of doing. I also had to get the green light from Mom, who was reluctant at first until I pointed out that not only am I 18 and financially stable enough to afford a tattoo, but I wouldn't suffer any side effects like infection or pain due to my abilities—my abilities that didn't work when Jessica needed them most.

"How are you so…so not-twitchy?" Clarissa asked as she changed needles to add purple detailing to the fairy wings and to the words. "When you came in at first, I thought 'Oh Jesus, we've got a twitcher. We'll have to keep this one sedated.' But you've proven me wrong. Tell me how."

"Actually," I began, looking at Clarissa. I noticed that she had two different-colored eyes, like David Bowie, and that she had a lip ring. "I can heal myself and other people."

"No way! So, like, if I said that I had an arm cramp, you could heal it?"

"I sure could. _Do_ you have an arm cramp?"

"Kind of." Clarissa rubbed her right arm. Nodding, I touched her right arm and felt that tingle of healing. A moment later, Clarissa looked relieved and kind of shocked.

"Damn. We should hire you to help heal all the twitchers."

"No thanks, I already have a job."

"Really? Where do you work? Sit up again, I'm about to start inking." I sat up properly and prepared for the touch of the needle. When it came, I winced slightly and let my left hand rest on my right forearm, away from where the work was being done. The painful touch of the needle receded and I relaxed again, allowing myself to carry on friendly conversation with Clarissa.

"I work at The Freak Show."

"Never heard of it."

"It's a coffeehouse over in Cabbagetown. It's very secretive—it just looks like any other house. It's only for people with powers. We literally have a bouncer that can sense whether or not you have powers. If you don't, she won't let you in and the place will look like it's closed. If you do, she'll let you in."

"That sounds really cool. I wish I had some powers."

"You do! You took my little bare-bones drawing and made it gorgeous."

"Well, that's not like _your_ power. But I support you guys. I read all the stories about that protest in December and I know about Jessica Grey. I swear, shit's gonna hit the fan soon if you guys don't get what you deserve, I know it."

"It's good to have your support."

"So, literally, you can't feel this?"

"Nope. As long as my left hand is on my right arm, I'm getting healed, so this doesn't hurt one bit to me."

"That's incredibly cool. We have a lot of patrons who come in here drunk, high, or both and they say that dulls the pain, but they also say the pain doesn't completely go away. Does the pain completely go away for you?"

"You betcha."

"So jealous." Clarissa switched to a darker purple in order to add shadow. "Tell me a little more about you, Phoebe. You're pretty cool."

"Thanks," I said, trying to hide a slight blush. I don't get direct compliments like that a lot. I decided to tell Clarissa my story. Right as I was explaining my on-again-off-again-and-then-on-again-for-reals-this-time relationship with Robbie, my cell phone started to sing from within my purse. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry. Do you mind if I take the call?"

"Not a bit. Just let me get to a pausing point." I waited until Clarissa gave me the green light and raced for my phone, hurriedly flipping it open just before my ringtone's end.

"Hello?" I barked above the din of other needles whirring away.

"Phoebe, it's me." Robbie didn't even have to identify himself whenever he called now. I could always recognize his voice.

"Oh, hey, sweetie. What's up?"

"Not much, you?"

"Just getting my tattoo done."

"Does it hurt?"

"No, but it looks awesome and my artist is really cool."

"Good to know. You'll let me see it, right?"

"Um, of course. It's in a conspicuous place—my arm—it's not like I'm getting one of those 'secret' tattoos or anything."

"Oh, okay. So, I have some bad news that leads to good news."

"Oh God, what's wrong?"

"Well, Jessica's mom called me. I gave her my work phone number just in case she needed a lawyer and my work phone re-routes calls to my cell after hours and on weekends. Unfortunately, she wasn't exactly financially stable at the time of Jessica's death and, as a result, can't afford a funeral."

"That's terrible!"

"However, there is a silver lining to this cloud. She's decided to have some fundraisers in Jessica's name. She's getting the news stations and the AJC to ask for donations at Bank of America, she's trying to plan a walk/run on some Saturday in a warmer month, and—this one applies to us—she's planned a benefit concert on February 10 at the Masquerade."

"The Masq? How did she book the Masq?"

"She has ties to the manager or something and when he heard her situation, he couldn't help it. Do you think we should play the show?"

"Does the Pope like Catholics? Of course!"

"I kind of thought you'd say that. The only problem is that every cent raised from admission goes straight to Jessica, so we won't actually get paid for this show."

"I don't care. If this was any other show, I would care, but this is for Jessica. I want my money to go to her."

"I kind of thought you'd say that, too. Well, I'll start getting our booking down and then we'll have rehearsals again to figure out our setlist. Is it okay if we practice at your place?"

"As long as it's in the basement."

"Of course."

"I kinda have to get back to this work, so I'll have to let you go."

"No problem. Get back to the work. I'll talk to you later."

"'Kay. Bye!" I closed my phone, tucked it back into my purse, and sat down again.

"I heard something about the Masq," Clarissa said as she started working again.

"Oh, yeah, my band's going to play a concert there in February for Jessica's benefit. Her mom can't afford a proper funeral right now, so we're going to raise enough funds to give her one."

"Just your band alone?"

"Oh no, there'll be a lot of other groups, too."

"When is it?"

"February 10th."

"I think I'll come down for it. Guess what's almost done? Your tattoo. And it looks fabulous, by the way."

"No thanks to you," I joked.

"Ha-ha," Clarissa said dramatically. "I just need to do the very last bit over here and then I'll be done. Now, because you can heal yourself, you don't really need to hear the spiel about infection and whatnot, do you?"

"Nope. If anything weird starts happening there, I'll just heal it up."

"Good, because you're done!" Clarissa swabbed the tattoo down with some sort of disinfectant liquid that kinda stung, so as soon as the sting came, I just touched my arm again. "Have a look at it!" She gave me a handheld mirror because she knew that if I tried to angle my head for a good look, it wouldn't go so well.

The skin around the tattoo was still a deep pink shade, but that didn't matter because the work itself was amazing. Clarissa's big, loopy cursive font, in black but with purple detailing, looked _so_ much better than anything I could have imagined. She made the little fairy look so realistic that I was fooled by it for a second, as cheesy as that might sound.

"It's gorgeous," I remarked after admiring it for a little bit. Part of me couldn't believe I had the stones to even _get_ a tattoo in the first place, so this was somewhat bizarre for me to behold.

"Another great work! Can I take your picture for my Wall of Fame?" Clarissa motioned to the wall behind her sink, gloves, and other disinfecting crap that was covered in hundreds of Polaroids, each one picturing another happy customer pointing to their tattoo. One tattoo was of a brilliant, multi-colored phoenix, drawn up and down a man's back from his nape down almost to the tailbone. Another was The Birth of Venus, seamlessly reconstructed on a woman's arm. There were many other smaller works, like little hearts and roses on ankles and those weird "tramp stamp" tattoos college girls tend to get on their lower backs, but the bigger works impressed me more.

"Um, sure," I said, striking a Rosie the Riveter pose and proudly pointing to my tattoo. Clarissa fetched an old-school Polaroid camera, made sure that film was loaded in it, and took my picture. While she worked out my method of payment (I chose a check and she chuckled at my choice of design—Hello Kitty), I watched the picture develop. I don't know what's so fascinating about a Polaroid developing, but it was just too cool to take my eyes off of. Eventually, after my check was verified, the picture was finished.

"Cute!" Clarissa remarked upon seeing my pose. "I'll tack this up on the wall right now." I watched her put my picture up in a vacant space next to that guy with the phoenix tattooed on his back and felt a sense of pride, like I was a part of a bigger picture. I knew I _had_ to show this to everyone I knew, but preferably after my skin wasn't so darn pink anymore.

---

"Li'l sis is hardcore now!" Josh remarked approvingly upon seeing my tattoo. We all decided to have our first rehearsal later on that day, after my skin faded back to the normal color, and now all the guys were taking their turn, gawking at my tattoo like it was something exceedingly special.

"Did it hurt?" Matt asked.

"I already _told_ you, Matt, it didn't hurt because of my powers."

"Can I poke it?" Matt asked.

"Chill out, it's not a science experiment or something," Robbie interjected, walking over and shoving Matt away, then taking a hold of my right hand.

"So, have y'all finally found your setlist?"

"Yes, though I had to dig through about twelve layers of crap in my car before I could find it," Josh said proudly, handing me a black binder with 'Candidates for Speedy Deletion' written on it in silver Sharpie. I still can't believe Char named the band after a concept found on Wikipedia! I wonder if she did it on a dare or something. "We usually play seven songs, and I've starred the ones we know best, but I've left you room to choose your own if you want."

"Thanks." I sat down on Char's bed and opened up the binder, revealing the setlist from CSD's last show, which was a Halloween show at the Roxy. Hah, I remember that one! I went to it dressed as a witch. Their setlist was as follows: Underground Network by Anti-Flag (starred), London Calling by The Clash, California Uber Alles by the Dead Kennedys (starred), I Think I'm Paranoid by Garbage, Zombie by The Cranberries, Pretty Vacant by the Sex Pistols, and Halloween by the Misfits.

"So, what do you think?" Robbie asked, sitting down next to me.

"Well, Halloween probably won't make much sense in this context, and I can't edit out the starred songs, plus I like all of them except for Pretty Vacant…I guess I need to think of two songs, huh?"

"You can choose anything you like. I'm the master at figuring out how to play songs just by hearing them," Matt bragged.

"Okay, tattoo poking boy," I said affectionately. "Y'all know that one song by the Killers?"

"Which one?" Josh asked.

"Um…that…" The rhythm and words were in my head, but I couldn't put a name to the song, so I decided to show off my pipes and sing a little. "_The good old days/ the honest man/ the restless heart/ the promised land/ a subtle kiss/ that no one sees/ a broken wrist/ and a big trapeze/ so oh I don't mind/ if you don't mind/ 'cause I don't shine/ if you don't shine/ before you go/ can you read my mind?_"

"Oh, that's Read My Mind," Matt said sagely. "I know how to play that."

"Yay! I really like that song." I took out a pen that was tucked into the binder's rings and wrote 'Read My Mind' next to 'Pretty Vacant'. "Hm…my last song…" As I searched the jukebox in my mind for a good song to sing, I glanced over and saw one of Char's Vivienne Westwood jackets hanging out of her closet. She didn't take a lot of her really good designer stuff with her when she left, as I probably noted before, so I wasn't surprised to see this jacket at first. However, I soon realized that I was looking at _the jacket_.

_The jacket_ is a red blazer with two black halves as lapels. When the jacket's buttoned up, the two halves form a little heart. It's the exact jacket worn by Nana Osaki in this manga (called _Nana_) that Angie and I both read. Immediately, as I imagined wearing _the jacket_, one of Nana's songs popped into my head—Glamorous Sky. That's it! Glamorous Sky!

"So, what'll it be, li'l sis?" Josh asked.

"Glamorous Sky. Mika Nakashima. Look it up," I barked.

"I'm not familiar with that," Matt said, looking puzzled.

"Of course not. It's in Japanese, but don't worry. I know the words. It's a good song. I think you guys will like it." I wrote 'Glamorous Sky' next to 'Halloween' and closed the binder. "So, when should we come together for practices?"

"We have this phone tree that works pretty well. First, Josh calls me. Then, I call Robbie, who then calls you," Matt explained, using hand gestures to represent each phone call made.

"Sounds good to me, just as long as y'all remember that I have school during the day on weekdays, so I can't practice then," I pointed out. "I also think Dr. RK is fixing to assign us a big-ass essay, so that could cut in, too. However, I know some of these songs. I might just need to revisit the lyrics to make sure I know all the words."

"I think that can work out," Robbie said after I was done explaining, giving the hairy eye to the other guys so they would submissively nod in approval. After they were gone, I called Robbie on it.

"I saw the way you looked at the guys after I talked about my schedule," I began as he was gathering his stuff and getting ready to leave. "It was this look like 'I will murder you with nothing but my bare hands if you do not agree with my girlfriend's schedule.'"

"So what? I _would_ murder them. Your voice is amazing, Phoebe. It hasn't been hurt by smoking or drinking or anything, which, unfortunately, Char partook of quite a bit." Robbie sighed. "Talked to her lately?"

"Yeah. I haven't told her about the show yet because I didn't know about it when we last talked. In fact, the last time we talked was right after Jessica died…" My eyes started welling up with tears again, which Robbie quickly stopped by wiping my eyes with his thumbs. "She'll be happy to hear about this, right?"

"I would think so." Robbie kissed my forehead. "Man, I hate seeing you cry."

"I'm sorry, I'll try to stop. I should start practicing my songs now, huh?"

"Yeah. Give those songs a look and pinpoint exactly what you need to concentrate on. Give _that_ more time than the songs you know by heart. That always works for Char. I'll call you when the next practice comes up."

"Thanks. I'm really looking forward to this. It couldn't be for a better cause."

"A cause that you tattooed yourself for. I love how you don't back down from your convictions. Maybe if I decide to get a tattoo, I'll bring you along so it doesn't hurt." He gingerly touched my tattoo, which caused me to wince slightly. I guess it's still a little raw. "Sorry," he whispered, giving me a quick kiss to make it better.

"Hey, is it okay if I advertise this concert?" I wondered aloud.

"It's fine by me. It might bring more people in, which means more money for Jessica."

"For Jessica," I repeated. "I'll do it."

Robbie gave me a goodbye kiss, this one longer and more satisfying, like a Fun Size Twix bar (that "sorry I poked your tattoo" one) as compared to a king size Twix bar (this one). Then he waved goodbye and was gone, electing to show off by going invisible and leaving somehow. I went back upstairs, fired up my iBook, and started spreading the word on Facebook before making a flier that I could distribute around school and work. It's for Jessica, after all, so it's worth it.


	18. One Night Only

Chapter 18: One Night Only

Note: Uhm, Vladimir Voldemort. I can explain. Y'see, Vladimir is Vladimir Putin, the president of Russia. He's been SUSPECTED—not convicted—of involvement in poisoning Alexander Litvinenko with polonium-210 (but it all seems really suspicious to me). In _Rolling Stone_, there's always a funny comic called "Get Your War On" that's on the letters page and one guy in the comic called Putin Voldemort because of this suspicion. I thought it was funny. Oh and! The lyrics of songs here belong to their original owners, NOT ME, I'm just a fan.

When Angie and Phoebe talk about writing essays, they're talking about _Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close_ by Jonathan Safran Foer. I recommend this book highly!

"Do these go to eleven?" Angie asked, pointing to the giant speakers on either side of the stage.

"Probably not," I answered. "I think they just made 10 a little louder and left it at that."

"Oh," Angie said, looking profoundly disappointed. It was the day of the show and we were going over our set one last time. This benefit concert had really blossomed since it was just a seed of an idea a month ago. It started with one band booked (Candidates for Speedy Deletion) and grew to twenty different bands, ten playing in each area of the Masquerade, except for Purgatory. Of course, I did my part to spread the word, putting fliers up around the school and at The Freak Show, where we had a little memorial to Jessica up in the store that won't go down until a gravestone goes up.

The Masquerade is an old wooden building that used to be some sort of mill (probably cotton; I mean, we are in Atlanta, after all, where cotton was once king). It's divided into three parts: Heaven, which is accessed via a flight of scary creaky stairs, Purgatory, which is a bar/game room, and Hell, which is a very intimate space that also contains a bar. We're playing in Hell, along with nine other bands, including the hilariously-named Vladimir Voldemort.

I should also mention that everyone associated with the show has been nothing but friendly and nice so far. I think we're all united by the cause and it's sweetened even the grizzliest-looking old punk guys. A lot of people notice my tattoo, which I'm still flaunting proudly. I can still remember how Harry and Shawn reacted when I first showed it to them during AP English: Harry's jaw and Shawn's books both dropped. Char sounded a little shocked at first, but soon proclaimed me "the coolest little sister ever" and gave me her blessing to perform a show without her.

Part of me kinda wishes that she could make it tonight, but I shouldn't be so idealistic.

Angie clamored up onto a stool at the bar and pretended to sway around like a drunk for a second before grinning broadly at me. I responded by crossing my eyes and sticking out my tongue, which made her laugh so hard that she almost fell off the stool.

"Nervous any?" Robbie asked suddenly, coming up to my side and touching my shoulder.

"Un poco," I answered in Spanish.

"The hell?"

"A little."

"I understood that!" Angie reported from the stool.

"It's okay to be nervous, but I think you're going to kick ass. Come on, we need to go back to the holding area. Vladimir Voldemort is itching to practice." Robbie glanced over my shoulder to where Vladimir Voldemort's four members stood, impatiently waiting their turn.

"Okay. ANGIE! Come on, we're going backstage!" I shouted, cupping my hands around my mouth. "I need to change, anyway."

"Can I watch?" Robbie asked jokingly, winking at me.

"Perv!" I cried out, playfully shoving him. Angie jumped off her stool and ran over to my side as we left the stage and retraced our path back to the 'holding area,' which consisted of two dressing rooms (one for girls, one for guys) and a green room where the pale green walls were covered with signatures, stickers, and posters from concerts past. Angie and I hung a left and entered the girls' dressing room, where a pale girl with a blonde and brown Mohawk was tugging on a pair of black fishnet stockings.

"So, how about that essay we're gonna get soon?" Angie asked as I unzipped a garment bag and took out a purple evening dress that I found for 75 off at TJ Maxx. "What theme do you think you're going to focus on?"

"I think I'll focus on how Oskar invents things that would make his life better," I replied as I shimmied out of my shirt. "You?"

"I was thinking of talking about how people in the book deal with loss—the grandfather's loss of speech, A.R.'s meticulous tree bed, et cetera," Angie replied.

"That's a good topic." I took off my pants and got a better look at the dress itself. It had spaghetti straps and beaded detailing right above the bust, a cool asymmetrical cut, and was a great dark purple. I bunched the dress up and pulled it on over my head, straightening it all out once it was on.

"Can I do your makeup for you?" Angie asked.

"Sure!" I replied, taking out a Ziploc bag containing a purple eyeshadow, purple mascara, and a brush. "Hang on a second, I gotta put my shoes on." My shoes were purple patent leather Mary Janes, purchased from Junkman's Daughter in Little Five Points, and they were awesome. I slipped into them and nodded at Angie, who opened the eyeshadow and filled up the brush with powder.

"Close your eyes," she told me. I closed them obediently. "Now, maybe you should warm up a little. Sing the scale."

"What key?" I asked as I felt the powder being dusted over my eyelids.

"Um…the right one?" Angie asked, not having much musical knowledge.

"Doesn't matter. I'll just do natural. Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do-ti-la-sol-fa-mi-re-do."

"That sounded right," Angie said, making up my other eye. "Do you want me to do your mascara, too?"

"Naw, I'll take over. Go see if the guys are in the green room yet and report back to me."

"Can do!" Angie left the room singing the scale herself. As I did my mascara, I couldn't help but think of Jessica again. This time, I commanded myself to focus only on that smile she gave me, not any of the bad stuff after the smile, and when I was done I glanced at my tattoo again.

"This is all for you," I whispered as Angie returned.

"Yeah, they're hanging out in the green room," Angie reported.

"Cool." I put my makeup away and followed Angie over to the green room. I was looking forward to investigating the cool graffiti a little more and adding some of my own. Each of the guys had something of their own to do. Josh was trying to do the sudoku puzzle in the paper, cursing whenever he realized he messed up and needed the eraser on his pencil, Matt was doing something on his cell phone, and Robbie was reading a copy of _The New York Times_.

"Hey, guys!" Angie said sweetly. The three guys glanced up and only then did I remember that they all wear the exact same thing to shows: straight black three-piece suits with white shirts and thin black ties, _Reservoir Dogs_ style. Char did that to a) make the guys look sharp and b) bring more attention to her own outfit choices. Angie went over to help Josh with his sudoku and I went over to Robbie's side.

"Hey hon," I began, craning my neck to see into his newspaper. He was reading an article about a boarding school somewhere in the Midwest for kids with powers, but as soon as he saw me, he wasn't reading anything anymore.

"You look hot," he remarked, pulling me towards him for some PDA.

"Stop it, Robbie!" I exclaimed. "I'm sure nobody else in this room wants to see that."

"My bad," he said to the guys, who nodded slightly. "Be right back." He took me out into the hallway, where we could be alone for a little bit. "Jesus, Phoebe, you're amazing," he whispered, kissing my ear.

"Um, thanks?" I asked, flustered, before he gave me a long kiss on the mouth. I played with his hair, trying my best to mimic how he plays with mine sometime, until he pulled away. "Was that for good luck?"

"You could say so. Come on, let's go back into the green room before the guys start making assumptions." We got back into the green room, where the guys playfully nagged Robbie for being a "one-minute man" before going right back to whatever they were doing before. The green room became a little more crowded when some of the other bands started coming in and doing their own thing, but the feeling backstage was still friendly and mellow. I went around and socialized with some of the bands for a while until this gruff stage manager who looked like Jello Biafra came in.

"Candidates for Speedy Deletion, you're up," he announced, waving his hand at us. Angie squealed and excused herself to go find a spot in the front row while the guys got me into some sort of pre-show ritual, which was much like a sports team's huddle. We huddled up, stacked hands (mine was on top), and counted to 3 before cheering 'CSD' and raising the hands back up. Yep, somewhat cheesy, I know.

Matt led the way because he needed to get to the drum set, Josh followed him, Robbie after Josh, and then my short ass was all the way in the back, my shoes making clomping noises as I walked. We had already gone over the light cues like ten thousand times—the lights wouldn't come on until Robbie played his first note—so I knew I'd have some time to get into my groove on stage.

I heard some assorted cheers as I ascended the stairs to the stage, found the mike stand, and positioned myself before it, adjusting it down to fit my height. Then, when I felt ready to go, I looked behind me and nodded. The guys immediately switched on, playing the intro to 'Underground Network'. The lights came on at just the right time and I was able to see the crowd for the first time. Angie was grinning at me from the very front row and I noticed Dylan over in a corner, standing with Lauren and Felicia. Mariposa was nowhere to be found. Now that I knew Dylan was here, I needed to turn my act up to eleven.

Justin Sane's original delivery of "Underground Network" is pretty hurried, doesn't stick to a certain rhythm, and tripped me up during rehearsals so much, but I can tell just by how Angie keeps smiling that I'm getting everything right.

I looked out at the crowd and saw that Angie was transfixed, a huge grin on her face. To the left of her stood Harry and Shawn, the guys from my table in AP English! I waved to them. Felicia and Lauren were jumping up and down while Dylan stood still, nodding along to the beat, hands deep in his pockets. There were other kids from Druid Hills that I recognized, too, so I gave them some looks and smiles.

The song ended with a drop-off and I bowed as the cheers, claps, whistles, and whoops rose up to fill the air.

"Oh my God!" I gasped into the mike, reaching for a bottle of water and sucking half of it down. "Wow. Well, we're Candidates for Speedy Deletion from Decatur, Georgia!" I shouted. The Decatur folks responded with cheers. "CSD fans may notice something new tonight. Me! Charlotte can't be here right now. I'm her sister, Phoebe! I'm 18 and a senior at Druid Hills High School." The DHHS people cheered and shouted "07" if they were also seniors. "07!" I answered. "Thank you, thank you. Let me take the time to introduce the fine gentlemen standing behind me. First, on guitar, is Robbie Stanhope!" Cheers. "On bass is Josh Lentz!" Cheers. "On drums is Matt Parkmark!" Cheers. "Without them, I'd just be some girl standing here doing karaoke. Well, I won't waste any more time chatting. Oh, one more thing I oughta mention. If I see any roughhousing up in that mosh pit there…" I pointed to it. "Not only will I have security break it up, but if I see anyone who's hurt, I'll heal them. If y'all see anyone who's hurt, flag me down. Yep, I can heal people. Okay, on with the show!"

The guys played the memorable intro to "London Calling" while I scanned the crowd. Now, Joe Strummer (Rest in Peace) and I are not alike. Not only is he male and I female, he is also British, and his accent shows in "London Calling." The lyric sheet reads "draw another breath," but he sings "draw-er another breath." That's just one example. So, whenever his British accent shows, I just replace it with my Southern one. It was cool how I had most of the audience chanting the hook. Well, "London Calling" is a pretty well-known song. I remember when I heard it for the first time, I was blown away at how good it was. I feel honored to play this song.

When the song was over, I bowed again and let the positive feedback flow over me like a river as I reached for that water and drank the rest. An eager roadie came and replaced it for me, so I patted his shoulder in thanks.

"Hey, Phoebe!" someone from the pit yelled.

"Yes?" I asked without the mike.

"Someone's hurt." A young man with blood all over his right arm waved the injured arm at me.

"Ouch!" I commented. "Here. Let me touch the left arm." He offered his uninjured arm and I touched it, feeling the tingle and watching as his arm healed. I got right back up to the mike and nodded at Josh and Matt, who started playing the intro for "California Uber Alles."

"You kick ass," Robbie shouted to me.

"You too!" I shouted back right as he joined the intro. The real Jello Biafra, not that weird stage manager guy, gives this song a ton of attitude, singing deep, growling, shouting, and all of that, so I replicated that to the best of my efforts. My voice is going to be so weird tomorrow. I let the audience sing along with me during some of the hooks because I know I always like participating in songs. I took another big gulp of water. I'm sure I'm sweating now. "Thus ends the first block of our set. Next is a twofer of songs sung by women." Some girls in the audience cheered, including Angie. Our version of "I Think I'm Paranoid" sounds different because we don't have a synthesizer. Oh well!

Shirley Manson always sings in a somewhat husky, seductive style, so I have to do my best to keep that in there. I hope I'm doing all right at that; I've never really considered myself sexy, seductive, or any of that. I wonder if Char can get here. I'm already halfway through the set. I keep searching the crowd, hunting for her familiar red hair, but I don't see it. In a way, I'm sort of sad, but instead of letting that affect my singing negatively, I channel all of it into affecting my singing _positively_. Judging from the response to "I Think I'm Paranoid", I think I'm doing a good job.

Without half a bottle of water this time, because if I keep gulping down that much water then I am going to have to _pee_ like a racehorse when this gig is done, I launched directly into "Zombie" and made that song my own. I grew more nervous when I realized that these next two songs were mine, not songs that CSD fans were used to, and felt a need to tell them.

"These next two songs were hand-picked by me," I told the audience. "The last one isn't even in English. Coming up after us is Vladimir Voldemort—I know y'all are excited for that—and after them is Three-Buck Chuck, so stick around, will ya?" Each band name's mention drew cheers and clapping from their fans. I drank just a little more water to prepare myself for "Read My Mind" and scanned the crowd once more. As I looked over the crowd, my heart rose because there was Char, standing at the entrance with a big smile on her face. She talked to the stage manager guy, who gave her permission to stand by Angie as soon as he saw who she was.

"Charlotte's here," Robbie told me.

"I know," I said, smiling. I looked at her and she nodded sagely, as if giving me permission to sing my hand-picked songs, so I obliged. I don't mean to brag, but I thoroughly believe that I made "Read My Mind" and "Glamorous Sky" my songs. Perhaps I should write to Brandon Flowers and Mika Nakashima to tell them. Or maybe not. Anyway, I felt so happy when I saw and heard the crowd's positive reactions, especially to "Glamorous Sky". I finished off "Glamorous Sky" with the same purr I used during rehearsals, took a deep bow, and let the crowd's reactions flow over me once more.

"Y'all have been the best crowd ever! If you're not sticking around for the other bands, meet me at the bar in Purgatory!" I felt like celebrating…with a virgin drink, sure, but celebrating nonetheless. "Thank you so much!" We left the stage and I glided down the stairs to where Angie and Char were waiting.

"Phoebe!" they shouted, both engulfing me in hugs.

"Oh, Jesus, I can't breathe!" I fake-complained, hugging them back.

"Phoebe, you were so great!" Angie gushed as we all walked back to our dressing room, though I didn't want to change.

"You were fucking awesome!" Char gushed. "Maybe we should make this a double-singer thing when I get back home. Might take a little stress off both of us."

"Did you like the last two songs?" I wondered.

"Yes, I did," Char replied, smiling.

"Awesome!" I said, feeling on top of the world. "I wonder how many people actually heeded the call to meet us at Purgatory." I reached into the dressing room for my purse, checked myself in the mirror, and followed the girls back outside while the guys changed clothes. We made a beeline for Purgatory, where all the DHHS people, plus people who I assumed were big CSD fans, were hanging out. Some were at the bar, ordering drinks, while others milled around the pool table or the sketchy-looking couch.

"Harry! Shawn!" I called out when I saw them at the pool table, pretending to have a swordfight with the cues. "Chill out with the cue fight!" They immediately stopped and came over to me.

"Phoebe, nobody told me you could sing," Harry said.

"Thanks for the compliment that I'm sure is hidden in there somewhere, Harry," I replied, patting his shoulder. "Did you enjoy the show, Shawn?"

"Hell to the yes," Shawn replied.

"Oh God, now you're Whitney Houston," I said, rolling my eyes, as Dylan and Lauren approached.

"Phoebe, I'm impressed," Lauren said. "You have a set of pipes on ya. You should lay down some tracks."

"I might," I said with a shrug. "If Char wills it."

"So, this is the fabled Charlotte. I've heard a lot about you. I'm Lauren, Phoebe's boss, but I'm a cool boss." Lauren and Char shook hands.

"Cool show, Phoebe," Dylan said.

"Thanks," I replied. It's still kind of awkward between us.

"Hey, everyone associated with CSD, drinks are on me!" Felicia shouted from the bar, waving her arms. A few people cheered. I took that as a cue to go over and try to get something, settling for a virgin piña colada.

"She's going to be broke by the end of the night," Char commented, ordering her own virgin piña colada.

"That's Felicia. She works with me," I said proudly. "She can bake stuff really quickly, so we make her bake all the goodies at the shop."

"Man, my power really made packing my overnight bag a lot easier."

"They're letting you stay overnight?"

"Yeah…Ken, the head honcho, decided it wouldn't make much sense if I came out here and had to go home right away, so I'm here for the night." Upon hearing this news, I squealed and hugged Char. "Well, I missed you, too. The good news is that they imagine I'll be good to leave in March, so I can definitely come to your graduation ceremony."

"Thank God. It would be so weird without you."

"I'm doing well. Notice how I ordered a virgin drink?"

"I noticed! Here come the guys." The guys came in, all decked out in their "normal" clothes. "Hey, Char, why do they all wear _Reservoir Dogs_ suits anyway?"

"Like I've said before, because a) it looks cool and b) I want to be noticed more than them!" Char said, laughing heartily.

"That's so you," I commented with a giggle.

I went around making small talk to some of the other fans for a while, but soon I felt overly hot and needed to go outside for a minute so I could cool down. I left through the front entrance, went past the ticket booth, and hung a right to stand in the area where our cars were parked. Sighing, I looked up at the sky first, then down North Avenue as cars glided by, their headlights glowing like stars. It wasn't a very cold night, but there was a bit of a bite in the air that caused me to shiver.

"Hey," Robbie said suddenly, appearing out of nowhere. "Are you cold?"

"Yeah," I replied, rubbing my hands against my arms.

"Here." He took off his blazer and handed it to me. I quickly put it on and immediately felt warmer.

"Thanks." I smiled at him.

"You were amazing tonight," he told me.

"I'm glad Char could see me. Do you know how much money we've raised for Jessica?"

"We won't know until after the show because people can come buy a ticket anytime, so we're still earning revenue, plus there are donation jars sprinkled around the bars, but I have a good feeling."

"Me too." I looked out towards North Avenue again when Robbie took a hold of me, whirled me around, and kissed me again. As we pulled away, I looked over his shoulder and saw Dylan leaving with Lauren. A smile crept up onto my face.

"This is gonna sound lame, but do you wanna get out of here?" Robbie asked me.

"What? Um, yeah, sure. Where to?"

"Just follow me."

I went inside, found Angie chatting with Harry and Shawn at the bar in Purgatory, and told her I was leaving. Harry offered to give her a ride back home and Char, who was nearby, said she'd see me later, back at the house. Soon, she'll _live_ there again…

In my car, my practice CD was still playing, and I decided to let it keep going as I followed Robbie back in the general direction of home. In retrospect, I should've realized where I was going, but I guess I was too caught up in the songs and everything to really notice until I had to pretty much tailgate him to get through the entry gate at his complex before it slammed shut on my car.

I won't go into too much detail, but I followed him up to his place, where we made out for a while, and then…um…


	19. Fame and Glory?

Chapter 19: Fame and Glory?

I opened my eyes slowly, acclimating myself to the glow from a TV set that was showing Saturday Night Live. As I squinted at the screen, watching the opening credits roll, I realized that the TV wasn't mounted in the right place. In my room, the TV is on the other side. This bed is nice, but my sheets feel different. Wait a minute! I'm not in my room at all. Where am I?

I sat up. It was at this time that I realized two things: Robbie was watching TV next to me and…well…let's just say that I wasn't wearing my nice dress anymore. It wouldn't be a stretch to posit that, perhaps, I wasn't wearing anything at all. Immediately, my mind raced with thoughts, but I couldn't make them come out right and the only sound I managed to produce was something like "urrhahgwah?" I'm pretty sure that's not in any dictionary I know of.

"Morning," Robbie said ever-so-cheerfully.

"It's night, isn't it?" I asked, looking towards SNL. That comes on at night, right? Therefore, it can't possibly be morning. Unless this is a rerun…but there's Kenan Thompson in the credits. He's a pretty new ensemble member, so this can't be a rerun.

"Yeah…"

"Something happened between us, huh?"

"Yeah."

"I'll go ahead and take a stab in the dark. Judging from everything I've noticed so far since waking up…I'm not a virgin anymore, am I?"

"You're not. How are you feeling about everything? I want to make sure you're comfortable."

"I'm feeling a little awkward, to be honest, but I think I'll be okay."

"It's okay to feel awkward. I just want you to know something that I've been trying to say for a while now. No matter what happens in the future, how bad things might get for people like us, I just want you to know that I love you, Phoebe."

"A…are you serious?"

"As a heart attack."

"I…um…wow. I've never been told that before. Well, in this particular context, I mean. I…I…" Come on, stupid mouth, connect with my brain and say what I want to say! You can do it, I know you can! "I love you, too." Good job, mouth. You get a cookie…later on.

"You should probably be getting home soon, what with Charlotte being home and everything. I know you want to spend some time with her. There's just one more question I need to ask before you go."

"Yeah?"

"Was it good for you?" The mythical "it" had finally arrived. It was a little off-schedule, what with the median age for first intercourse being sixteen, not eighteen, but "it" was here.

"It…it was."

---

Since I knew Char was staying the night, and that I wanted to hang out with her so badly, I managed to find my clothes, bid Robbie adieu, and head back home. The whole ride home was pretty surreal, though, and I don't know why. The experience was good, and now I knew that Robbie loved me, but why did I feel so weird? I decided to confide in Char because I just didn't feel able to tell Mom yet and I thought Char might be able to provide some sort of nugget of sisterly advice.

"You did what?!" she gasped immediately after I retold the whole story to her.

"Don't freak out about it," I said defensively, pouting.

"Not freaking out. Just can't believe my little sister _finally_ did "it"! Jesus, I thought Robbie got you the first time you two dated and you just didn't tell me!"

"Is this a statement of support or disappointment?"

"Support all the way, Feebs. You know I'll always support you. In fact, I'm happy for you. It sounds to me like he really makes you happy."

"He does. And this all comes just after I pretty much gave up on love. I'm lucky, huh? Then, why do I feel weird right now?"

"Because that's normal. I felt weird after my first time, too. Here, to get you on the road to feeling better, let's watch some episodes of The Office."

We watched approximately half of the Season 2 boxset for The Office, which did make me feel better. Michael Scott is so ludicrously hilarious that you really have no choice but to feel better about yourself, no matter what's eating you.

Unfortunately, Char had to leave the next morning. However, she pointed out to me that she was close to leaving Peaceful Plantation and that she would tell me when she knew an exact date of departure. She also gave me permission to sing again if any other shows came up. I might just take her up on that offer.

---

Man, all the people at school who came to the show were nearly tackling me in the halls just to tell me how good I was. I've always felt flustered when people give me compliments—I don't feel like I deserve them and I get unsure about whether I should compliment back or just say thanks and move on—and this time was no different. Some people asked me when I was going to play again, although one little sophomore girl asked me for my autograph on a picture of CSD that she took during the show. _That_ was bizarre. I signed normally, like this was a syllabus or permission slip, and moved on to class, but it got me thinking. Could I become famous, semi-famous, demi-famous, or even slightly-famous from this?

After I took Angie home, I got home and went to get something to eat. First, though, I booted up my iBook and signed in to my e-mail account. There were a few weird spam messages in there that were just little pieces of advice on what stocks to buy. I gathered them all up, took them behind the chemical shed, and shot them…just kidding. I deleted those. But then, there was an e-mail from a person named Dana Cavanaugh. Its subject was "Interview and Photo Op – Creative Loafing." Now, I've always liked _Creative Loafing_, so of course I clicked on this. If it ends up being another weird spam (which seems unlikely due to the descriptive subject line, but it could still happen), oh well.

As soon as I read the first line of the e-mail, though, I knew this wasn't a weird spam. It was a real, legitimate e-mail from a real, legitimate journalist. She said that she was at the concert, originally to take a few pictures of each band performing, but when she noticed my tattoo in one of her shots, she decided to do a little more investigating and found me. Now, she was getting ready to write an article on Jessica's life and death and wanted me to come down for an interview and a photo shoot at earliest convenience.

I replied immediately, expressing my interest in this opportunity and asking when would be the best time to come down.

"Is tomorrow all right?" Dana replied near-instantaneously.

"Tomorrow around 4 to 4:30 is good," I said after looking up _Creative Loafing_ and plugging its location into Google Maps, then asking for directions from the school. "I have to take my friend home first. What should I wear?"

"Wear normal clothes, but make sure we can see your tattoo without you rolling up a sleeve or anything."

"Do I need to do my own hair and makeup?"

"We can do that for you."

"Do you know how much money was raised from the concert?"

"Actually, we were hoping you'd know that, but I can do some research and tell you tomorrow. Here's my cell number, in case you get lost or need to reschedule at the last minute."

"I don't foresee either of those things happening, but thank you anyway! See you tomorrow!"

Of course, I immediately had to get on the horn and tell everyone I knew about this. Was my crazy prediction going to come true? What all was going to come of this? All I knew was that I needed to find a cute short-sleeved shirt or tank top for tomorrow, something that would make me look good without looking like I was trying too hard, and preferably one in purple.

---

I drove over to _Creative Loafing_'s office, wearing a dark purple tank top with jeans and sneakers, and managed to find Dana at her cubicle, which was plastered with concert posters from all sorts of bands. She was busily typing away at something when I came up and knocked on the cubicle's outer wall to get her attention.

"Hello, Ms. Cavanaugh?" I asked. She turned around, tossing back her long black hair and looking at me with light blue eyes that kind of reminded me of Robbie's.

"Please, call me Dana!" she requested, finishing her typing and standing up to shake hands with me. "You must be Phoebe. I can tell from your tattoo."

"Yeah," I said with a smile.

"I'm going to do the interview with you first, and then we'll head over to the art department and get some nice photos done. We'll give you copies of your pictures if you'd like."

"I'd like that, as long as someone can just e-mail them to me."

"I think we can work that out." Dana found a digital voice recorder and a spiral-bound notebook amid the organized chaos that was her desk, went over to another cubicle, and begged a co-worker to borrow his other chair for a few minutes so she could do an interview. In the distance, I could hear the strains of "We Fly High" followed by someone asking "Hello", so I guess that's someone's ringtone. I sat down in the other chair.

"I like this place," I commented.

"Yeah, we're pretty laid-back. 'Swimming against the mainstream' and all of that." Dana turned her chair to face me and turned on the recorder. "Now, if you don't want something to go on the record and possibly in my article, just tell me so, okay?"

"Okay. Do you have to say that?"

"You guessed it. So, Phoebe, what motivated you to get interested in Jessica?"

"Well, I was actually there when she died."

"Really? Tell me more about that."

"I was at Medlock Park with my boyfriend—actually, the guitarist from Candidates for Speedy Deletion—and I saw this little girl there. She was exuberantly happy because it was her birthday, her fourth birthday, and she wanted to play on the big kids' playground. Her mom was like, No, stay over here at the little kids' playground, but she decided that she wasn't going to. Her mom put her in one of those swings with the little leg holes and started pushing her. When she got up really high, she looked right at me and jumped out of the swing, flying over to the big kids' swings."

"She flew?"

"Yes. She was able to do a few little tricks in the air, too, like figure-eights and whatnot. Just watching her made me feel really happy. Then, while she was flying…" I paused to try and stop a fresh batch of tears from ever flowing. "While she was flying, I heard three gunshots from behind me and she fell."

"Oh my God."

"I went over to see…" I sniffled and started crying. "To see if I could help her. I can heal people. Or I usually can, but this time, I couldn't. I don't know why. So, I switched to just comforting her until an ambulance came. I talked to her, small-talk stuff, and when she was taken to the ambulance, she looked back at me and smiled. I'll never forget that smile. Then Robbie and I followed the ambulance to the hospital, where we waited with Jessica's mom in the ER waiting room until a doctor came out and told us that she was gone, that she fought hard but the wounds were just too deep." Dana patted my shoulder and reached for a box of Kleenex.

"Here," she said, offering the box to me.

"Thanks," I said, dabbing at my eyes. "After I saw that, I just thought I had to remember this little girl in some way. I thought a tattoo was appropriate."

"Can I see it?" Dana asked. "I saw it in the photos, but it was hard to make out."

"Um, sure." I stuck out my arm so she could see the tattoo better.

"It's pretty. What's the significance of the fairy with a purple dress on?"

"Jessica was wearing fairy wings that day, the kind you get at the Renaissance Festival, and they were purple, which was clearly her favorite color. Pretty much everything else she was wearing was also purple. That's why I wore a purple dress for the concert."

"I found some preliminary statistics about the concert's earnings, by the way. Some donations are still coming in, but as of now, over $2,000 has been raised. What do you think about that?"

"That's amazing! I'm really happy to hear that. When I first heard about the show, I just had to jump at the opportunity. I knew I wasn't going to see any money from it, but I knew all the money was going to a good cause."

"You said that you're not the usual vocalist for Candidates for Speedy Deletion. Who is?"

"My older sister Charlotte. She couldn't do the show, but she was in the audience. People have been saying that I should consider recording some songs. I'm not sure about that, though, because we're a cover band. Isn't there some way that the original artists could sue us?"

"I'm not sure about that. Perhaps if you recorded a benefit album for Jessica and sold it only at local shows or online, the original artists wouldn't mind, but don't take my word for it. So, when Jessica's funeral is held, are you going?"

"Without a doubt. I have to pay my final respects."

"Thank you for your time, Phoebe." Dana switched off the voice recorder. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah. Just thinking about how Jessica died makes me kinda sad. I'll be okay."

"All right, just making sure. Do you want to go to the art department now?"

"Give me a minute." I had to calm myself down first so that I wouldn't sniffle or anything during the photo shoot. Once I was sufficiently calm, I followed Dana down the hall, up the elevator, and to the art department. We met up with a photographer named Dave who had a big, luminous Afro and Buddy Holly glasses. He told me that I looked camera-ready just the way I was and invited me into a studio, setting up a white background for me to stand against.

"It'll make your dark clothes pop nicely," he explained. "First, I need a few shots of you looking sad, kind of desperate. Can you do that for me?"

"I can." I looked off into the distance, eyes reflecting the sadness I was still feeling, mouth slightly open to further convey the sad feeling. I didn't even see the photographer's camera until after he took a few shots and told me to break the pose. At that time, I noticed that he was using one of those big Nikon digital cameras that aren't so good for personal use because they're just so darn big. It also had a bulky flashbulb attached at its top.

"Do you want to come over and see them?"

"I can?"

"Sure, you can." I jogged over to the photographer's side and looked through all of the pictures so far. They looked great, the same kind of quality as my senior pictures, and (though I fear sounding egotistical by saying this) they made me look really good. "Now, I want some straight-on shots. Stare down the camera. No smiling. Look serious. Can you do that for me?"

"Can do!" I went back in front of the backdrop and commenced staring at the camera, head angled slightly to the right, mouth tightly shut, glaring. The photographer took a round of pictures, called me over, and had me look at them. Once again, they looked gorgeous.

"For this last round, I want a bust shot showing your tattoo. Turn to your side and grab your right arm at the elbow. In this round, you can smile. In fact, I want you to. All I've seen is seriousness and sadness. I want to see a pretty smile. Can you do that for me?"

"I can," I replied. Was this guy hitting on me? I assumed the position he wanted and let a closed-mouth (I don't care much for open-mouth) smile play on my face. He came in closer to me and took a round of pictures. I was, of course, allowed to look at them again, and once again I liked what I saw. This guy had talent.

"Thank you!" he said to me.

"No, thank you! Hey, can you e-mail copies of those photos to me? Ask Dana for my e-mail address."

"Sure, no problem."

"Thanks again!" I left the studio on cloud nine and returned to Dana, who thanked me profusely for my time before sending me on my way home. As I walked to my car, I wondered what kind of effect this article's publication might have on me. Surely it can only be a positive one!

I know, I know, don't call me Shirley.


	20. Everything Changes

Chapter 20: Everything Changes

Note: And now for the return to action that was promised before. However, this part can be disturbing. If I make my warning any more specific, I risk spoiling the plot point, so I will just say that this section would definitely be rated R if it were an American movie. I will say that there is violence and hints—just hints—of sexual violence. Put the kiddies to bed and don't let them read this part, folks. I WARNED YOU. THIS IS GRAPHIC.

Also note: The phone number mentioned in this chapter is not real. If you type it into your phone and look carefully at the letters you "dial", you may find a surprise. ;)

Life was good. After my publication in _Creative Loafing_, all the cool kids who actually knew what _CL_ is thought I was cool. Word of mouth spread interest in the story to even more people at school, which led to another being-stopped-in-the-hallway-to-give-an-autograph routine, this time with pictures reproduced on newsprint. It was still a little bizarre, but I was getting used to it.

Customers at The Freak Show talked about my article, probably because Lauren insisted on keeping copies of it for customers to read even after newer issues came out. At first, she wished I had name-dropped the shop, but then she realized that might open up a can of worms, security-wise, and that it was good to keep the shop shrouded in secret.

I had been accepted to Georgia State, Angie had plans to visit a college in San Francisco that she applied to, everything was going well with Robbie, and Char was going to come home a few weeks earlier than expected because she was showing a lot of progress and was starting to get a little stir-crazy over at Peaceful Plantation.

Like I said before, life was good. But all it took was one day, just one moment in time, to completely fuck everything up.

I had to stay late at school one night so I could audition for the spring musical. Demand was so high that auditions were held over the course of two nights from right after school to nearly 7 o'clock. I voluntarily signed myself up for the last time slot because it gave me time to go home and make sure I had my monologue and song excerpt completely down pat, plus the kids who needed to catch the bus or else risk being stranded at school could get their auditions out of the way first. The art teacher/drama club sponsor already knew about my singing abilities because she went to the benefit concert, so I got to skip that bit and go right into my monologue. I left feeling good about the audition and hoping that I'd get a part.

The school parking lot is lit at night, but not very adequately. There's only one set of two lamps and, of course, one of them is presently burnt out. That's my school for ya. I was reduced to digging through my purse for my keys as I walked towards my car, which, along with a few cars belonging to soccer players, was the only one left there. In fact, I bumped into Dylan's car as I tried to find my damn keys.

I approached my car, still hunting for the keys, when I heard soft footsteps behind me. I assumed it was just one of the soccer players heading home for the night and finally managed to find my keys. Right as I was about to use said keys to unlock my door, though, the footsteps grew louder and closer behind me. I whirled around, wanting to find the source of those footsteps, just in time to have a smelly old washrag stuffed all up in my nose. It smelled funny and suddenly I felt really dizzy, then kind of sleepy.

---

I awoke from my long winter's nap feeling incredibly confused and like I was mentally operating at a much slower speed than usual. My confusion only grew when I noticed that I was in a completely alien room without any windows. It was lit brightly by a big circular light hanging from a ceiling fan. I was presently sprawled out on a fairly comfortable futon, complete with a duvet and a pillow. (I only say fairly comfortable because the futon was kind of lumpy and I sleep with two or three pillows, not one.) In one corner was a small TV and in the other corner was a door that was slightly ajar, showing me a bland-looking bathroom. Other than that, the room was devoid of anything else. No posters, pictures, clocks, or chairs, and _why are there no windows_?

"She woke up," a gravelly male voice announced from behind me. I flipped over and saw a trio of masked men coming down a flight of stairs. One guy, in the front, was holding a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. On his left was a man toting a small silvery handgun and on his right was a man toting a large kitchen knife, best suited for butchering stuff, I suppose.

"Where am I?" I asked, sitting up.

"Can't tell you," the man with the bat replied. "Undisclosed location."

"O…K?" I asked slowly, raising my eyebrow. What does that mean? "What am I doing in this undisclosed location?"

"Can't tell you," the man with the gun replied. "Top-secret."

"Right…" I said very slowly.

"Don't give us any more lip, sister, or I'll cut up that pretty face of yours," the man with the knife said, brandishing said knife.

"Like that'll do anything to me," I spat. "Tell me why I'm here."

"That's it! I'm gonna cut you!" the knife-man growled.

"Don't," the bat-man commanded. "She asked a question and I'll give her an answer. You've been kidnapped, little lady."

"_Kidnapped_? You've got to be kidding me, right? Ah, it's just you guys, isn't it? That's not very funny. Josh, I didn't know you liked knives so much. And don't call me sister again. Matt, you with a gun is just goofy. Robbie, baby, Louisville Sluggers sure do make you look threatening. Whose house am I in? Is this your place, Matt?"

"Who the hell are you talking about?" the gun-man asked.

"S-so it's not you guys?" I asked, the blood rapidly draining from my face. "This isn't a joke?"

"What is the last thing you remember?" the bat-man asked, kneeling down next to me.

"I was in the student parking lot and then…then there was this rag…"

"Correct. That rag was soaked in chloroform, _sister_."

"Do you want to tell me why I'm here? And when I get to go home?"

"You're here because we got so damn sick of seeing you everywhere! In the _Creative Loafing_, on the news, always going on and on about the rights of people with powers!" the gun-man explained.

"And we just wanted to prove a point," the knife-man added.

"So, you guys kidnapped me just to prove a point?" I snorted. "What are you gonna do to me?"

"We can't tell you that, _sister_," the knife-man said. "We gotta keep you in suspense. But first, let's watch a little TV, shall we?"

"Dude, when's The Sopranos coming back on?" the gun-man asked as the bat-man went over to the TV, fetched a remote control, and turned it on.

"I was thinking more along the lines of current events," the bat-man explained as he turned to Channel 5. It was just now 5 o'clock because the news was just starting up.

"Our top story tonight: eighteen-year-old Phoebe Reid was kidnapped last night, sometime after 7 o'clock. She was last seen at Druid Hills High School in DeKalb County, leaving the auditions for a spring musical. Her car is still parked in the student parking lot. Because nobody witnessed her abduction, her current whereabouts are unknown," explained a female newscaster over images of my pictures from _Creative Loafing_, establishing shots of the school, and a shot of my car, alone, in the student parking lot, sometime early in the morning.

"She just…left the auditions, smiling, and went down to the parking lot," the art teacher/drama sponsor said, crying openly. "I was the last person to see her…" She broke down crying and her image was replaced with Mom and Char's. They were standing in the living room, holding up my senior picture.

"Please, find my baby," Mom pleaded, also crying openly. Char was nodding fervently, lips pressed together, trying to hold back her own tears. Char was already back home?

"If you have any information on Phoebe Reid's whereabouts, you are asked to call the Georgia Bureau of Investigation at…" The TV snapped off right before the recital of the phone number.

"Can't have you knowing the GBI's number like that," the bat-man explained. "Then, you might go do something stupid like calling them and asking for help. We can't have that."

"Look at what you did to my mom! You're making her cry! You've already proved your fucking point by making an innocent woman cry like that! Just let me go. I won't appear in the news again. I'll lay low. I just…I just don't want my mom to hurt like that. Please, for the love of all that is holy." I clasped my hands together. "I'm begging you."

The masked men paused for a moment before letting loose with hysterical laughter, the kind that makes you slap your knees and drool and causes your jaw to hurt like mad afterwards.

"Do you hear this schlock? She's _begging_ at our _feet_!" the knife-man howled.

"Please, for the love of all that is holy! Please! Please!" the gun-man said, doing a terrible impression of my voice.

"I don't sound like that, dumbass!" I protested.

"I don't sound like that, dumbass!" he repeated, once again in the terrible impression. "Ha! This kid's a laugh riot!"

"That's it!" I leapt up from the futon and tackled the gun-man, taking a firm hold of his throat and squeezing tightly, like I was trying to get the last bit of toothpaste out of the tube. As he struggled underneath my grip, I was struck in the back by the bat-man. I gasped in unbelievable pain before realizing that I could heal myself just by letting go of the gun-man's throat, so I did momentarily and shoved my knee in his throat while I healed.

"Why didn't that work?" the knife-man asked the bat-man.

"Search me," the bat-man replied. "Want me to do it again?"

"You're the boss," the knife-man said.

"So you're in charge around here?" I asked, turning to face the bat-man.

"You betcha, sister," he said, clocking me upside the head. I felt dizzy and sleepy again and saw everything starting to fade, but I quickly healed myself again before I lost consciousness. "Why the fuck won't you stay down?"

I wanted to tell them about how I could heal myself, but if they didn't know it, I wanted to keep them guessing. How could they have missed that detail in the _Creative Loafing_ article? Dana left it in even though it was kind of a non sequitur. Maybe they didn't read it very carefully.

The gun-man clicked the safety off of his weapon and fired a shot into my nape, but unfortunately for him, I was still holding my arm and was therefore able to heal myself. I could even feel the bullet physically leaving my skin.

"Jesus, dude, the bullet just popped right out of her skin! She must be magic or something," the gun-man exclaimed in awe.

"Magic, huh?" the bat-man asked. "Keep her subdued. I'll be right back." I watched the bat-man trot up the stairs, wondering where they led to, and was tackled by both the knife-man and gun-man. Each of them pinned one side of me to the floor.

"We're gonna find out just how magic you are," the gun-man whispered to me.

"What the hell does that mean?" I asked, finding it a little bit harder to breathe because of all the weight on me. The bat-man returned with the same nasty cloth as before. Oh no…could I find a way to make myself _not_ smell that? Is that possible? The only way I can think of is to hold my nose, which these two bozos are keeping me from doing. My hands flailed around helplessly under their grasps.

"I get firsties," the bat-man declared as he came up to me, wiggling the cloth in the air.

"Aw, man! You know I hate sloppy seconds," the gun-man protested.

The bat-man dropped the cloth over my face. It covered my eyes, leaving me unable to see very well, although light still shone in between the fibers. It covered my mouth, leaving me unable to speak very well. And, of course, it covered my nose, making me feel dizzy/sleepy again…

---

I awoke to see the knife-man as he buttoned up his pants again.

"How is she?" the bat-man asked.

"Awake now," the knife-man reported.

"We're disappointed in you," the bat-man told me. "We thought you'd be a virgin."

"That would've made the whole experience better for us," the gun-man explained.

It dawned on me that these men just raped me, one after the other, probably starting with bat-man and ending with knife-man. I was paralyzed with shock and terror. My mouth hung open, making little gasping sounds, but I couldn't will any words to come forth.

"Ha-ha, look at her, she can't even talk right," the knife-man said, laughing.

"Maybe she enjoyed it. Maybe she wants us to do it again," the gun-man suggested.

"NO!" I screamed with all my might. "NO! I don't want you to do it again!" Tears sprang forth from my eyes and stained the futon. "Please! I'll do anything!"

"Aw, we must not be very good at this," the knife-man lamented.

"Bullshit, I'm probably better than whoever she's been with. Who you been with, sister?" the gun-man asked.

"None of your goddamn business," I replied.

"Sorry I asked," the gun-man said, shrugging.

"Go upstairs and get the camera and tripod," the bat-man told the knife-man and gun-man, who both nodded and rushed upstairs. "You said you'd do anything to prevent another instance of…" He hesitated. "Of what just happened to you. Does that possibly entail shooting a ransom video that'll go out all over the world?"

"It does! It does!" I shouted.

"Good, because we're about to do just that. Put your damn clothes back on, though. I don't think you want the whole world to see you naked."

"What am I going to say?" I asked as I retrieved each item of clothing and systematically re-dressed myself.

"I made up a script while the other guys were…" He hesitated again. "Having their fun. Here." He took a folded-up piece of paper out of the pocket of his jeans. "Read this word-for-word, okay? If you do, I'll give you something to eat. You're probably hungry, aren't you?"

"I am," I replied.

"I'll make you a good meal. Just be a good girl and read. This is…like…a script. Like what you'd get for a musical." That rat bastard! He was comparing the script for a ransom video to the musical I was auditioning for when they took me! But as I was deciding whether or not to tear up that script, my stomach rumbled and I was reminded of the reward I would get.

"We're back," the other two announced as they came in, toting a Sony Handycam and a bulky black tripod.

"Perfect," the bat-man said. "Set it up." The two nodded and hurriedly set up the camera and tripod as if they had been practicing for this very moment. "Now remember to read the script, okay?"

I nodded, the script shaking in my hand. I wanted so much to deviate from it, to tell them what was really going on, but then my stomach rumbled again. If I go much longer without food, I don't know what could happen to me. For now, I just have to stick to the stupid script.

"Now start reading," the bat-man commanded.

"I'm Phoebe Reid," I began. "I'm being held by the Society Against Gifted Individuals, or SAGI for short, the Atlanta chapter, in an undisclosed location that is somewhere in the Northwestern part of Georgia. $1 million is my ransom. If you ever want to see me alive again, please call 404-537-7422. Do it by week's end or they'll kill me."

I dropped the script from my shaking hands and stared into the camera's lens, crying again, wishing so much that I could say something else but knowing that I couldn't. I wanted to tell everyone that I was okay, but I wasn't really okay because these three guys all had their way with me, and that I was really scared but still defiant—I could heal myself and that was the one power I had over them. But was that enough? I just want to go home.

"And…cut," the bat-man commanded. "Good job, Phoebe. You stuck to the script when I was expecting you to deviate disastrously. You'll be rewarded handsomely. Boys, go upstairs and fix Phoebe something nice. Also, put that video on the computer and burn a copy to a DVD-R."

"Where should we send it?" the knife-man asked.

"CNN, you bumbling idiot. I already have the envelope stamped and everything." The bat-man watched the gun- and knife-men go upstairs again. "They can be so dense, I swear it. I'm going to go up there too to make sure they don't fuck everything up completely. If you dare to follow us up there…" He leaned in dangerously close to me. I could see that he had green eyes, but I couldn't see any of his other facial features. "I'll put a bullet between those beautiful blue eyes of yours." He touched my forehead, right between my eyes. "Got it, Phoebe?"

"Got it," I replied.

"You can watch TV if you want. They may still be talking about you." The bat-man went upstairs, swinging his bat around and whistling what sounded suspiciously like what Elle whistled in Kill Bill.


	21. A Rat in a Cage

Chapter 21: A Rat in a Cage

WARNING: This chapter needs a warning for the same reason Chapter 20 did.

I lay down on the futon, covering myself with the duvet, and turned on CNN. Indeed, I was still being talked about at great length. They were busily interviewing people from my school, some of whom knew me and some of whom just pretended to know me so they could get some face time. They were all talking about me—how nice I was, how smart I was, and all of that. Dr. RK came up on screen, sitting behind her cluttered desk, eyes redder than tomatoes.

"She always gave her all. She'd frequently go above and beyond on assignments, even the small ones. I always looked forward to her essays. She's witty and friendly. She's a great student."

The scene cut to Harry, Shawn, and Angie, all seated at our normal table, my seat notably vacant.

"She'd always make jokes," Harry explained. "We'd talk about last night's Scrubs or just shoot the breeze."

"We made fun of each other, always in a playful, ribbing way," Shawn added. "I looked forward to this class."

"She's been my best friend since we were in diapers," Angie said. "I miss her so much. I'm really worried about her. Feebs, are you out there? Can you hear me? I miss you. I'm worried about you. I love you. Please come home."

"I want to, Angie," I told the TV screen. "I want to come home so much."

"Here's your food," the bat-man reported, handing me a tray of food. I looked over my bounty—a turkey sandwich on wheat with lettuce and mustard, a bag of potato chips, a big slice of apple pie with vanilla ice cream, and a glass of pink lemonade. I snatched up the sandwich and hungrily tore into it while the screen showed a news anchor standing near my car, which was still faithfully parked in the student parking lot. It was now festooned with flowers, cards, and candles.

"…all hoping and praying for her safe return. Betty Nguyen, CNN, Atlanta."

I finished the sandwich and started on the potato chips.

"You sure were hungry, weren't you?" the bat-man asked. I nodded because my mouth was stuffed full of chips. The anchors back in the CNN studio downtown that I've toured before mentioned that I would be the topic of discussion tonight on Nancy Grace.

"Can I watch that when it comes on?" I asked, bits of chip flying from my mouth.

"Sure," the bat-man replied.

"Thanks." I downed the rest of the chips with a big swig of lemonade and vacuumed up the apple pie. After my bounty was gone, I felt as fat as a pig and kind of sleepy, too. It must be the tryptophan in the turkey. But damn, was that food good!

"I'll wake you up for Nancy Grace," the bat-man told me.

"Who says I'll fall asleep before then?" I asked defiantly.

"Mm, about one milligram of flunitrazepam ground up into that turkey sandwich of yours, I reckon," the bat-man replied. "You'll sleep like a baby, so I'll have to wake you up."

"Flunitrazepam…isn't that…a…roofie…" I asked just before I fell asleep.

---

I was awakened by the bat-man just in time for Nancy Grace. The light was off in the windowless room, so the TV's blue glow was the only source of light. My arms were stinging something awful, so I held them up to the screen and noticed a series of intricate, deep cuts up and down both arms.

"Oh yeah, those. Bobby wanted to see how fast asleep you were, so he did those to you," the bat-man explained. I sighed and simply healed myself, watching the cuts go away, which reminded me of Todd. I don't know if the bat-man saw me doing that, but who cares if he did.

"Did they rape me again?" I asked.

"Not this time. I didn't let them."

"You _didn't_?"

"No."

"Why are you being nice to me?"

"I wouldn't exactly call it being nice. If you'll remember, which you may not be able to, I was the first one who…" He hesitated again. "Had a good time with you."

"You can't even bring yourself to say the correct term for what you and your henchmen have done to me."

"You're right. I just don't like that word, so I use euphemisms instead. Maybe…maybe I feel sorry for you a little bit."

"Don't. I hate that."

"Well, okay, I guess I am being nice to you. I mean, look at what Bobby did to you. And Buck is no better. He wishes that that bullet he shot into your nape had paralyzed you, turned you into…'a droolin' retard' I believe was the phrase he used."

"So the gun-man is Buck and the knife-man is Bobby. Don't tell me your name also begins with B."

"Interestingly enough, it doesn't. It begins with C. My name's Christian, but call me Chris."

"How ironic that your name is Christian and yet you're acting so unlike one."

"_Life_ is ironic."

"I'll say. Just a while ago, I was reflecting on how good my life was." I looked towards the screen, where a group of people were combing a stretch of woods somewhere near the school. They were all dressed in neon orange and shouting my name over and over. "They won't find me there, will they?"

"Correctamundo."

"Chris, where am I?"

"Now, I can't really tell you that, can I?"

"Why not? It's not like I can call anyone or anything."

"Maybe you're right. Don't let Bobby and Buck hear this, but you're in…" Just as Chris was about to say where I was, Bobby and Buck marched downstairs.

"Don't let Bobby and Buck hear what?" Buck asked.

"Nothing," Chris barked in response. "Did you numbnuts send that video in to all those other places I requested?"

"Yeah, we did," Bobby replied.

"Good job. You get a cookie," Chris said sarcastically.

"Really?" Buck asked.

"No, dipshit. God, you're so gullible."

"I can't watch this anymore," I suddenly announced. "I can't handle it."

"Just hold your horses, sister," Bobby said impatiently. What is he on to?

When the show came back from commercials, I discovered why Bobby didn't want me to change the channel. The TV screen soon lit up with my face as portrayed during the ransom video that was filmed earlier.

"We abandoned the mailing idea and decided to just send the video online," Buck explained.

"Quicker response time that way," Bobby added.

"Wow, you two did something intelligent for once. Good job."

"No cookies, though, huh?" Buck asked.

"Chill out about the damn cookies! If you want one so badly, they're upstairs in the pantry," Chris growled.

"Please turn off the TV now," I said to Chris. "I just want you three to leave me alone so I can go to sleep. I just want to forget that this day ever happened."

"Can't let you do that, sister," Bobby said. "One of us has to watch you at all times."

"I'll do it," Chris offered. "You two limpdicks go upstairs and have yourselves some cookies. Then go watch American Idol and fondle yourselves or whatever you do in your spare time. I'll watch Phoebe."

Without any more comments, Bobby and Buck left the room. I listened very carefully to make sure they were far out of earshot before I even dared to ask what I wanted to.

"So, _Christian_, where am I again? You said you'd tell me earlier, but then we were interrupted by the double Bs there."

"I did say I'd tell you and I'm generally a man who keeps his promises, so I will. There's only one problem, though. I don't just give away juicy information like that without a price."

"Don't tell me. You want to 'have fun with me' while I'm actually conscious, don't you?" I asked sarcastically, hoping that I wasn't actually being true.

"No. All I want's a nice sloppy kiss, the kind you only see in movies. I swear on my mama's grave that I'll tell you where you are right afterwards. You just have to make your payment first." What were my options? I really wanted to know. I would just have to suffer for less than a minute. I'm sure actors face this dilemma a lot, what with having to kiss their co-stars while simultaneously having a significant other in their life, but the two situations aren't exactly alike. They're alike enough to justify my decision, though.

"Fine," I sighed. "Then can I go to sleep?"

"You can do whatever you want afterwards. Well, not exactly, but you know what I mean."

"You're gonna have to take off that mask," I pointed out. I kind of wanted to see the face of at least one of my captors. I wanted to memorize it so I could tell the police about it later—important things like eye color, any distinguishable marks or scars, things like that. I already knew a first name, so that was a start. I was just doing a little research.

"You're right." Chris reluctantly pulled the mask off and set it on the floor, face-up, staring at me. I got a good look at him, quickly memorizing his facial features. He had, like I mentioned before, green eyes. He also had longish black hair, a nose with a crooked bridge (that probably means it's been broken before), and very full lips. In fact, he was somewhat attractive. Oh God, am I getting Stockholm syndrome? What have I come to?

"Let's get this over with," I muttered, sitting up from the futon. Chris came over, sat down next to me, and put his arms around me. I immediately felt disgusted by his touch, as expressed through a batch of goosebumps that popped up all over my arms, but he ignored this because he pulled me in close to him and started trying to eat my face. It was not at all hot, sexy, or anything. It felt like someone had thrown a giant squid at me. I swear that his tongue was all up on my nose at one point. I just went stiff as a board and let him do whatever ungodly bastardization of making out that he wanted to do.

Did he just lick my _eye_?

Okay, finally it was over.

"Baby, you're in Buckhead," Chris whispered before going in for Round Two.

"Oh _hell_ no," I shrieked, shoving him off of me. "No more face-sucking! No more! I'm in _Buckhead_? I'm only like five miles from my house? Jesus God, just let me go home! If the other two are anything like you, I'm starting to think y'all just want me around so you can drug me and fuck me because, believe me, no girl in her right mind would want to go to bed with someone who kisses like a…like a giant squid!"

"A giant squid?" Chris asked. "Is that the best you could come up with?"

"I swear you licked my eye! That is not correct protocol, ever! You must not know very much. I mean, haven't any of you three realized or remembered why injuries just don't seem to hurt me very much? Perhaps it could be the fact that _I have fucking healing powers_. They work on myself, too. That's why a gunshot at point-blank range aimed for my nape, which probably would paralyze me from the neck down, just bounced right back out of my skin. God, you three are idiots! You kidnapped the wrong gifted girl. And what's your little organization called again?"

"The Society Against Gifted Individuals, Atlanta chapter."

"SAGI? That's a no-good acronym. It sounds like 'saggy' and that's just a bad association to make. Tell me, how many people are in 'saggy'?"

Chris remained silent.

"Tell me."

"Three."

"THREE? Just you guys?"

"Yeah. We're getting off the ground."

"So your first order of business: kidnap, injure, and rape a gifted young woman just to prove your point as a legitimate organization? Bitch, please. Al Qaeda's more legitimate than you three assholes and just look at them! You three are a pox on humanity and you'll be known as one forevermore."

Chris drew back and slapped me, hard, across my right cheek. In response, I drew back and slapped him, hard, across his left cheek. He punched me, making the bridge of my nose crack, but when I felt the healing tingle and saw his facial expression change from anger to astonishment, I knew that had no effect. As I balled my right hand, my stronger one, into a fist, he grasped both my wrists and forced me back down onto the futon. I struggled under his grip, already knowing what he was going to do—the very thing he promised me not to do. He was going to "have a good time with me", as he so eloquently put it. And this time, I was going to be awake.

Well, that's too bad for him.

He unzipped his pants, whipping it out, and that was when I struck. I only took one karate class, the free sampler class, because the rest of them didn't fit into my schedule, but during that class, I learned three different kicks. There was the front, the back, and the side. I slightly modified the front kick so that my knee, not my foot, would be the main aggressor, and I delivered a swift kick to his family jewels. He let out a cry similar to a whale song and let go of me. I wiggled free of his grip and hustled over to the area he was sitting in before, which was marked by the gun Buck had earlier.

I can't say I know much about guns. I've just played Doom and seen Tarantino movies. I couldn't tell you the distinguishing marks of any particular model or brand of gun. All I know is that you pull the trigger and it goes bang. So, I applied this practical knowledge to Chris, who was still rolling on the floor, wailing in pain.

"Aw, there, there," I sang softly, hiding the gun behind my back as I knelt down beside Chris. "Did I hurt you? I didn't mean to. Okay, yeah, I did. But here's the bright side, _Christian_. I'm about to make all your pain go away." I placed the gun to his temple. "Go to hell. It's the only place you and your henchmen belong."

"One last thing I wanna tell you," Chris whispered. "I killed Jessica."

"You rat bastard," I replied maliciously, gritting my teeth. I squeezed my eyes shut as I squeezed the trigger and heard a terrible, yet satisfying sound similar to a watermelon being dropped at an afternoon picnic. Except, when I opened my eyes, the carpet was covered with fragments of skull, brain, gristle, blood, and all that other cool stuff that makes up a head, not seeds and pink juicy stuff.

Naturally, the noise from the gunshot sent the double Bs running down the stairs, armed with the knife and the bat. I guess some of Chris's remnants must have splashed onto my face and clothes because the double Bs wore identical expressions of shock upon seeing me, shock that didn't diminish when they looked over and saw Chris lying there.

"Hey, boys," I said cheerfully. "Good to see you again. Now, there's no way you can avoid this fate." I pointed, with the gun, to Chris. "It's one of the two inevitabilities in life and, well, your numbers have come up. There is a way to delay your fate for a minute or so, just long enough to shoot a prayer God's way, perhaps asking Him for some forgiveness. I'm not sure if He'll provide in a situation like this, though. I need to know if you all have my purse somewhere. I know I had it on me when I was taken."

The double Bs stayed silent. I pointed the gun at Buck.

"C'mon, Buck. Tell me. I'll kill Bobby first if you tell me." I turned the gun towards Bobby. "Bobby, you'll get offed second if you tell me."

"Okay, you crazy bitch. We'll show you," Buck said. "Follow us." I followed them upstairs, still pointing the gun in their general direction, and we stopped near a computer stationed on a nice-looking desk. My purse, completely intact, was tossed carelessly onto the ground near it. I crept over to retrieve it, gun still aimed, and slung it over my shoulder.

"Thanks. Now say goodbye." Aiming carefully, I sunk two bullets into both B boys. They spun around for a little bit before slumping onto the ground, staining the hardwood floor with their nasty remnants. Since I wasn't as close to them this time, some parts of their heads still remained, but what can you do? Sometimes, a head explodes like a watermelon. Other times, all the goopy stuff just seeps out, like a balloon that's been pricked by a needle.

Now freed from my captors, I opened the front door and let myself go outside. I found myself in a fairly posh cul-de-sac, surrounded by the kinds of houses that go for about $1 million. Lights were on in all of them and families flitted around inside, going about their lives like usual. I opened up my purse and pawed around inside for my cell phone, which I eventually found.

My God, I have 24 missed calls.

I flipped open my phone, ignoring the list of missed calls, and dialed 911. I wanted to call Mom, but maybe I should tell the police to stop looking for me first. When the dispatcher answered, I simply told her that I was Phoebe Reid. She asked me my location. I looked at the mailbox—2869.

"Um…2869…" I squinted to see the street signs. "2869 Running Brook Lane. It's in Buckhead. I kinda had to kill my captors to escape. But I did it out of self-defense. I mean, all three of them raped me at least twice, and they held me against my will, and…"

"Ma'am, we're dispatching a police car now. Please stay on the line until it arrives. It should arrive in two minutes." The dispatcher didn't even listen to my self-defense proclamation. I'm sure that I won't go to jail for this. If the guys were still alive, they'd be the ones going to jail, not me.

Two minutes? Boy, they sure are efficient in Buckhead. I've heard of cops taking half an hour, 45 minutes, or even more to get to houses sometimes, but those houses are never in Buckhead. This is the rich part of town, after all.

The squad car, carrying a male and a female officer, pulled up and I told the dispatcher of their arrival. When the officers got out of the car, they were shocked by my appearance. I must look terrible.

"You're okay now, sweetie," said the female officer. "You're safe now."

"Thank God," I whimpered, starting to cry. The female officer led me—without explicitly touching me, so I must be really nasty or something—to the car, where I wept nonstop until I reached the station.


	22. Everything Changes Again

Chapter 22: Everything Changes Again

I looked horrible. I wanted to change my clothes, but the female officer told me I couldn't, that they needed my clothes for evidence and they didn't have any extra clothes besides prisoners' outfits at the station. She also assured me that she wouldn't press charges, even when I tearfully confessed that I murdered all three of my captors, one by one, because I did it in self-defense. I thought that was nice of them.

My hair was caked with rapidly drying blood, turning it a bizarre maroon shade. I had a pink glaze on my face, which was insides combined with sweat, demarcated by lines that tears had traveled. My clothes were not salvageable because they were so filthy.

"Sweetie, we're going to take you to Grady to administer a rape kit," the sweet female officer from before told me. Her name badge read Jones. It should have read Savior. "We're hoping to ascertain the identities of your captors."

"They're still at 2869 Running Brook Lane, rotting on the floors, if you want to go see them," I replied.

"We're going to, but this rape kit is important as well."

"Can I call my mom and tell her to meet me there?"

"Oh, she already knows you're going there. In fact, she'll probably be there to meet you, as will a ton of reporters and cameras. Can you handle that?"

"I can handle that," I declared. "I just want to see my mom again."

"I know you do, sweetie. Let's go." She put her arm around me and led me back out to her squad car. "Do you want to sit up front? My partner's not coming."

"Um, sure. That'll be cool." Jones opened the passenger door and ushered me in. I sat in silence throughout our trip downtown to Grady. When the car turned onto Jesse Hill Drive and I got my first glimpse of all the cameras, all the microphones, all the reporters hungry for a story, oddly enough I felt good. I wanted this story to end happily. Reporting that I was found alive is vastly better than reporting that I was found dead. Jones tried to shield me from the reporters as we walked into the hospital, but I could still hear a deafening roar of shutters clicking and people screaming questions that I'm sure I could answer later.

I was whisked away by a nurse and led down a series of hallways until I reached a nondescript examination room. A female doctor was waiting for me inside, armed with a camera.

"Hello, Ms. Reid. My name's Nurse Smith. Could you please lie down on the table for me?" This was familiar protocol to me, so I obeyed. "Now, I'm going to administer a rape kit. I will tell you what I will do before I do anything so you get a chance to give consent. Do you understand?"

"Yes, doctor."

"Very good." She explained to me how the hospital does HIV testing—through that swab that you just stick in your cheek—and asked me if I wanted HIV testing. I answered yes, so she swabbed down my cheek. She drew blood from me, explaining that this was routine and was to check for STDs and pregnancy.

Pregnancy?

I guess it's possible. I mean, I don't think the guys were using protection.

She took a few pictures of me and told me that I could wear some scrubs until I could get back home. I hurriedly donned the scrubs, happy to get out of my filthy clothes, and felt comfortable. The nurse told me not to get too comfortable with the pants just yet because there was a lot more testing that needed to be done.

I'm glad that she was female, because immediately after that, she went…you know…down there. She took a few hairs, cutting them off with a pair of scissors, and also took some hairs from my head. She had me scrape my fingernails on something like an emery board. Then, she went _down there_ again, giving a thorough examination. It was really weird and kinda painful, though of course I could just heal the pain right away. After her thorough examination, which involved the speculum (now I see why Char hates the gynecologist so much), the nurse patted my shoulder and told me that I could put the pants on now. She also said that she was going to quickly analyze the blood sample because that was important, so she told me to wait in the room.

I wanted to leave so badly. I wanted to see the people who mattered to me again. However, I wanted to know about the findings from this blood sample, so I had no choice but to stay put and contemplate my cuticles for what seemed like forever. The nurse came back in, looking somewhat grim.

"Ms. Reid, I'm sorry to tell you this, but…" She paused and sighed. "You're pregnant."

"What?" I gasped, my heart rate soaring. "Are you sure about that?"

"Beyond the shadow of a doubt," she said.

"Oh God," I whispered, shocked. However, I soon knew what I was going to do. I've always been a crazy pro-choice liberal kinda girl, but now it's time to put my money where my mouth is.

"Ms. Reid, there are many counseling services available…"

"You think I'm keeping this thing?" I asked, indicating the general womb-ish area. "I'm not keeping this thing. Oh no. I'm going to go to Planned Parenthood as soon as possible and get this thing out of me."

"If that is your choice."

"It is. Now let me go see my mom."

"Yes, ma'am." She led me, the crying wreck, back down the hallway and to the waiting room. This time around, Mom, Char, Angie, and Robbie were all waiting there for me. As soon as I saw Mom again, I abandoned that nurse—to hell with her and her counseling services; I'm pro-choice—and hugged her.

"Mom," I whispered.

"Oh, Phoebe, thank God you're home again. I was worried sick. I thought I'd never see my baby again." Baby. Like that thing inside me? I don't want to tell her right now. She's happy to see me. I'll tell her later.

"Phoebe," Char said, joining in on the hug.

"Char, you're home early!"

"Yeah. I wanted it to be a surprise after you got home from auditions, but so much for that, huh?" Char was fighting back tears.

"Thank you Jesus," Angie whimpered, coming over and touching my arm. "It is so good to see you again."

Robbie, who was trying so hard not to cry that he couldn't even speak right, simply came over and held my hand.

"I want to go home," I declared. "I want to go home and I want to feel safe again."

---

Safety at home was more serious business now. There was an insanely bright storm light outside the house that switched on when we walked in its path. A shiny new deadbolt was on the front door. A shrill alarm went off when we walked in and Char went to turn it off. I swear that I saw a little black-and-white TV with four different views of the house, too, but I'm not sure. I might just be hallucinating. I wish that all of this was a hallucination, that I could go back to my car and fight my way to safety instead. But was that ever possible? Could I have gotten away? Or was this all destined to happen?

As I went into my room, Char explained that she was probably going to sleep on my floor just to make sure I was safe. She hauled out an old sleeping bag and went through with her promise, unrolling it on my floor and burrowing inside it. I settled into my own bed, noting that it felt more comfortable than usual, but sleep wasn't coming like it normally did. My mind was just racing.

Out of curiosity, I touched my arm, wondering if I could heal my sleeplessness. I thought it was a long shot and wouldn't even work, but surprisingly I felt the tingle and started feeling very drowsy. Before I went under, though, I told Char one thing.

"Char," I muttered, as the drowsiness was taking away my ability to speak coherently. Who needs Lunesta when you have superhuman healing abilities? "When they tested me earlier tonight, they found out that I'm pregnant."

"You're not going to keep it, are you?" Char asked.

"No," I hurriedly replied. "I'm going to abort as soon as possible. But I'm kind of nervous about the whole procedure."

"Why should you be? It won't hurt for you."

"You're right. That's why I can get to sleep right now."

"Besides, I'll come with you."

"That's good to know. What if there are protestors?"

"Simple. I'll kick their asses."

"Good to know."

"I'll probably say this until you're sick and tired of it, but I'm so happy that you're home safe, Phoebe."

"I'm glad to be home…" I drifted off.

---

The next morning, I awoke to my ringtone and stepped over Char—who could literally sleep through a hurricane and actually did when Opal hit way back in the day—to retrieve my phone. I didn't recognize the number flashing on the outside display, but I answered anyway.

"Hello?"

"Phoebe! It's good to talk to you again."

"May I ask who's calling?"

"It's me, Dana! From the _Creative Loafing_?"

"Dana! Hi! Good to hear from you."

"Everyone's clamoring for a press conference. They want a chance to hear your story. Do you think you're up for one?"

"A press conference? Like the ones on TV?"

"Exactly like those."

"I had a great idea for a venue. Your car is still in your school's parking lot, but since today's Saturday, nobody else is going to be there. It'd be a great photo op—you in front of the car that was and still is a sort of shrine to you."

"Are there reporters from other countries that are interested?"

"Oh yeah. I think we had some BBC folks, someone from France, a German person, some Spanish speakers, Japanese…why do you ask?"

"My best friend can come along and translate for us. That's her power."

"That's a pretty sweet power. She can come along."

"What should I wear?"

"Doesn't matter, as long as you don't mind having your picture taken multiple times in whatever you choose to wear."

"What time will it be?"

"Well, how's 2 PM sound?" I looked over at my clock and discovered that it was now 12:30. That didn't give me much time, but I could make it work.

"2 is fine. Why are you scheduling this for me?"

"Because I'm moonlighting as your publicist now. You didn't know that?"

"No, I didn't."

"Well, your mom was getting sick of all the phone calls and e-mails from reporters, so she remembered me from the article about you and decided to hire me. She's actually paying me, you know. It's not an hourly wage, it's a weekly wage, but it's still good to have even a little more money in my coffers. I don't do my job for the glorious riches because journalists, as a general rule, do not earn glorious riches."

"Wow, I have a publicist…"

"Don't let it get to your head, kid."

"I'll try not to," I joked. "I'll call my friend now."

"Do you need a ride over there?" Dana asked.

"No, I'll get my sister to drive me," I replied. "But thanks anyway."

"No problem. See you there!"

"I'm going to drive you where?" Char asked, rolling over in her sleeping bag and sitting up.

"Um, just to Angie's house and then to the school," I replied. "My car's still over there, so I can't go myself. I can drive back home, though."

"I can do that," Char said, stretching. "Nnngh. I'll go change clothes now." She wiggled out of the sleeping bag and stared at it intently, watching it rise into the air, and then she took off for her bedroom with the bag floating behind her. I decided to go with my normal school-type outfit of a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, but I made sure to wear a short-sleeved shirt to flaunt my tattoo again. After I was dressed and managed to put on my "school face" (foundation, powder, mascara), I gave Angie a call. She, of course, was excited at the prospect of using her powers like this and agreed to come. Mom gave her blessing to the press conference right as Char came back upstairs, looking refreshed and ready to take on the day.

"Man, I haven't driven in a while," Char commented when she sat down in the driver's seat of her Mustang. "But it's not one of those things that you forget, you know?" She started the engine and shifted into Reverse.

"Not even driving a stick?"

"Not even," Char replied, getting into the 'zone' that drivers sometimes get into when the world fades around them and they're alone with the car. Char drives stick, but I've never wanted to learn it. It seems overly complicated and riskier than automatic.

Angie was similarly dressed when we picked her up and she sat in the back, saying all sorts of words in all sorts of languages that I could only dream of understanding. I guess she was warming up—the translator's equivalent of singing the scales—but it was still funny to listen to.

All manner of news vans and other cars were jostling for space in the tiny student parking lot when we arrived. I advised Char to park in the teachers' spots to keep away from the madness and she did. We then hiked down the steep hill to the student parking lot, where Dana was helping to set up a little podium for me in front of my car. That's pretty picturesque.

"Phoebe! Good to see you again!" Dana called out as soon as she saw me. I introduced her to everyone before she gave me a rundown of what was going to happen.

"Folks are going to ask you questions. If you want to answer them, you can, and if you don't want to answer them because they make you feel bad, or weird, or whatever, you certainly don't have to. Angie, Phoebe told me about your talent. I can't wait to see it in action. Are you ready?"

"I'm a little nervous," I said shakily.

"Don't be! The reporters don't bite," Dana said, patting me on the shoulder. "Come on. Go answer some questions." I nodded and stepped towards the podium, positioning myself behind it and looking out towards the crowd. Before me stood row upon row of reporters, many of them raising their hands and shouting at me for their attention. Didn't their teachers tell them that routine never works? It just made me feel overwhelmed, so I chose a woman with a nice shirt on.

"Sarah Stephens, _New York Times_. Can you describe for us the room you were held in?"

"It was actually fairly nice. It was the basement suite of a new-ish house in Buckhead. It didn't have a window, but it was carpeted and had a TV and futon. There was a set of stairs leading up to the house, but I wasn't allowed to go up them until I overpowered my captors." I nodded, as if punctuating my question, and Sarah said 'thank you'. I guess that means I can take a new question.

"Don Thomas, _Atlanta Journal-Constitution_. Who were you being kept by?"

"I only knew their first names: Buck, Bobby, and Chris. It should be noted that Chris, whatever his last name is, confessed to the murder of Jessica Gray just before his death. I don't know if he was lying or not, but he seemed to be telling the truth. I hope someone looks into that."

"Anna Delauney, CNN. Were you injured?"

"I was injured severely. In fact, if I did not have the talent that I do, I would be dead. At one point, one of my captors shot me dead in the nape…" I touched my nape. "But because of my ability, it just bounced right off. I was also gruesomely cut up and down my arms, but once again, I healed myself."

I selected another reporter, who proceeded to ask a question in fast, clipped Spanish. Angie perked up and immediately began to listen carefully to the question, leaning in and translating for me once she heard the entire question.

"This person wants to know if you were…um…sexually assaulted." I nodded.

"Sadly, yes, I was sexually assaulted. However, I was never assaulted while I was conscious—my captors had to drug me up first. They knew I would fight back—and hard—and that's why they had to resort to such tactics." When I was finished, Angie translated the answer while other reporters took time to catch up on their notes. I looked over at Dana, who smiled and gave a thumbs-up, indicating that I was handling this very well. Char also gave a thumbs-up. I felt empowered by this and this clearly affected how I answered questions.

I answered every single thing those reporters asked me. I answered well, I made jokes, I smiled, I cried, I posed in front of my car with Angie and Char. When the conference was over, I imagined something odd. I imagined what it would be like to _be_ one of those reporters asking me questions. The last flashbulb flashed in my eyes and I blinked profusely, but I still couldn't shake the thought. I wonder what it's like to do this for a living.

Then I heard Char calling me back to reality—she said something about helping clean off the car in exchange for ice cream—and I rushed over. My car was covered with flowers and cards, all of which I wanted to read, so I opened the driver's door and gingerly placed everything in the back. Angie hopped in the front after we were done putting all the flowers and cards away and I drove off in search of ice cream to celebrate my freedom with.

Now I just have one little trouble to tend to…


	23. My Little Trouble

Chapter 23: My Little Trouble

Note: All right, before we start I'm going to say that I'm a liberal Democrat who believes in choice, much like Phoebe, who spends time in this chapter talking about abortion. If you disagree with my politics, deal with it. If the fact that I believe in choice disturbs you so much that you don't want to read this story anymore, well, you're losing out on a good thing, but there's a little button at the top of your browser that probably looks like an X. All you have to do is click it. (I don't know about how it looks on Macs.)

I returned to school that following Monday. People's stares followed me down the hallways wherever I went. I heard people talking about me. I got a standing ovation when I walked into AP English class. Some kid from the newspaper wanted to interview me about my experiences. A part of me was happy to see that these people cared about me, even the staring and whispering people in the hallways. Another part of me knew that, though these people all meant well, they really had no idea what I was going through.

Over the weekend, I had to use my powers so many times to make me sleep soundly that it wasn't even funny. Sometimes, though, I would fall asleep and dream about my captors getting a hold of me again. In some of the dreams, I came extremely close to dying, but of course I'd always wake up. I wonder why you never fully _die_ in your dreams—you just get a hair's breadth away and wake up in a cold sweat.

Then I had morning sickness on Sunday. I really have no idea how Mom managed to get through not one, but two pregnancies without throwing herself out of a window. I can't believe how much crap I threw up. I can't believe this stupid little clump of cells, a clump I never wanted in the first place, is causing me such strife. Thankfully, I figured out what that horrendous stomach gurgling meant and managed to prevent it from happening on Monday, but still, that one morning sucked. I need to get this clump out of me as soon as possible.

But first, I have to tell the people I care about most, the ones who only want what's best for me and can support my decision. Char already knew, so I wondered if Mom knew, and when I tried to casually breach the subject at a commercial break during some show we were watching, she just nodded sagely. She already knew. She also already knew of places in Atlanta that provided abortions. Like I said before, I am 100 in support of every form of choice, from abortions to Plan B, but it feels weird when you're on the other side of the mirror.

Angie understood too, and threw her complete support behind me, but there was still one person left on my List of People I Care About Most: the only male on the list, which made me a little nervous for reasons I couldn't quite discern. I had to tell Robbie, though. He said he'd love me no matter what, so now it was time to test this statement and see if it held water.

We met for coffee after school/work one day. I gripped my latte a little tighter than usual, sipped a little slower than usual, didn't talk as much, all because I wanted to figure out how to say it. Something like this is not a statement introduced lightly. It is devilishly difficult to slip into normal conversation because it simply does not belong there. I guess I really should congratulate myself for talking about it already. I practiced it in my head over and over, tried to prepare myself, and eventually I knew I had to take the dive and just do it.

"I've really been regretting talking about this," I confessed. "It's not exactly the nicest of topics, you see, and it's been causing me a fair bit of anguish—and some actual physical sickness…"

"You're pregnant, aren't you?" Robbie cut in.

"How did you know?" I asked, wiping a bit of whipped cream off the rim of my cup.

"Char told me."

"Char told you? When did she do that?!"

"A few days ago. We were talking on the phone and she expressed how worried she was about you. I asked her to elaborate and she said that it wasn't a good idea to. However, if there's one thing you should know about those who have studied law, it's that we always find out everything we want to know."

"I'll try to keep that in mind. Well, now that Char's loose lips sank a few ships, I guess I can get right past the uncomfortable confession of pregnancy and jump right to 'and I am going to abort it because I'm a ruthless liberal baby-killer.'" I sighed. "Well, that's not really the reason. The real reason's because I'm only eighteen and I don't have enough money to raise a child and the damn thing would just be a reminder of the most traumatizing event of my life every time I looked at it or even thought about it…"

"You don't need to tell me," Robbie said, putting his hand atop my right hand, which was currently lazily sitting on the edge of the table. "I already understand. I know that you should do what you need to do."

"So you're comfortable with me aborting?" I asked, wanting to make absolutely sure that everything was OK. "I mean, I've just given three good reasons why."

"I am comfortable. I understand your three reasons and, like I said before, I think that you should do what you need to do. Hell, I support the right to choose, no matter what the circumstances."

"Goddamn," I said in awe. "I think I just fell in love with you a little more."

"Glad to know I'm good for something," he joked.

"I'm still stressing out about all of this, though. I've been healing myself a lot more lately. Did you know that my power extends past physical wounds and into the realm of mental problems? Like when I can't sleep because I'm afraid my captors will get me, I just touch my arm and bang! I'm out like a light. Or, when I'm sitting in class and a certain word someone says triggers a terrible memory of that day, I just touch my arm and I'm on cloud nine again. This power's really great for stuff like that."

"That doesn't sound very healthy. Have you considered going to a therapist?"

"I did for a while, but I realized they don't have any idea what I've gone through and therefore can't provide very good advice to me. They'd probably just try to load me up with those medicines that can cause suicidal thoughts in teens and send me on my merry way, and to be honest, that stuff's expensive—and potentially deadly. I'd rather just heal myself."

"But sometimes it can be good to have someone to talk to. And I think you're underestimating the education a therapist has to get before they can practice. They may not know exactly what you've been through—hell, you're the only one who will ever truly know—but I'm sure they could help a little and sometimes, all we need is just a little help."

"Damn it. Why are you so right about everything and I'm so very wrong?"

"Because I'm a lawyer, Phoebe."

"You're not a lawyer yet, you're just a paralegal."

"It's a step on the ladder to being a lawyer."

"But it's not a lawyer."

"If you want to argue technicalities, you're right…"

"So I'm right for once! I argued against the Diet Coke of lawyers and was right! That deserves a T-shirt or something."

"You're crazy, Phoebe."

"I already know _that_."

"Maybe that's one of the very, very many reasons I love you?"

"Maybe so?"

We held hands for a long time afterwards and talked about whatever. I think he was just trying to reassure me that everything would be all right again. Deep down, I know that because my mom, older sister, and best friend all told me exactly the same thing. But right now, I have to get through this distinctively _not_-all right period of my life to get there.

---

I learned a little more about the different types of abortion on Wikipedia that night because, you know, knowledge is power. There's this one kind where they'd suction me out using either a manual or electric pump, another where they'd use this weird thing called a curette to make my worthless cluster of cells go away, and yet another where they'd just give me some pills that would supposedly make me bleed out the cluster, but that one's less effective than the others because sometimes it doesn't clean everything out completely. Excuse me if I sound brash, but the one thing I want from this procedure is for everything to be cleaned out completely. This, combined with the fact that I'm not susceptible to pain, made me decide to go with one of the suction procedures.

The state of Georgia is a ridiculous place to seek an abortion in. Thankfully, the law that requires a sonogram before an abortion is still in limbo under the Gold Dome downtown, and I'm glad I'm over 18 because I have a sneaking suspicion that both parents must be notified if a teenager wants an abortion, but I still have to wait a full day before the actual procedure and I was given a pamphlet full of all this crap "information".

I was shown a timeline of fetal development (although, at this stage, my fetus is still nothing but a clump of cells), told about the medical and mental risks of abortion, given a list of abortion alternatives (like hell I'm going to carry this thing to term), and this whole thing ended off with a discussion of fetal pain. Now, I read about this on Wikipedia. Some folks think that fetal pain is possible during the first trimester, others posit that the development of pain receptors doesn't begin until the second trimester, and even others say that fetal pain isn't even possible. So, I basically discounted the entire contents of the pamphlet. I always get a little pissed-off whenever male lawmakers enact stupid abortion-related laws like these, considering they'll never have to experience anything like this, ever.

I made an appointment and raided my closet to find the best incognito clothes just in case any representatives of the media showed up to the clinic, settling on a plain gray hoodie, old baggy jeans, black Chuck Taylors, and a pair of Char's giant fake Chanel sunglasses, the kind where the lenses reach down to your cheekbones. I decided to carry my important stuff (my cell phone and wallet with insurance card because my HMO was going to pay for all of this) in the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie and had Char drive me over because she offered to.

"Son of a bitch," she muttered after she parked the car.

"What's wrong?" I asked from beneath my hood and sunglasses.

"We've got company," Char said, gesturing towards a group of very irate pro-life protestors. They were holding signs with such lovely slogans as 'It's not a choice, it's a life', 'Abortion causes a beating heart to stop', 'Defend Life', 'Abortion Kills Children', and One person even had a picture of a bloody fetus. There were little kids there, too. Some of them had duct tape covering their mouths, which means they're doing some sort of silent protest thing. One little kid had a bib on that said 'I'm so glad my mommy didn't abort me'.

"How many are there?" I asked.

"A lot."

"I'm scared of them. What if they have guns or bombs? Eric Rudolph bombed an abortion clinic here, didn't he?"

"It's OK. Just hold my hand. We'll be inside soon. You don't have to look at them, either." I took a firm hold of Char's hand and stared at the pavement as she led me by the protestors.

"It's not too late!" one woman screamed.

"You sinful harlot!" a man added.

"You murderer!" another man barked.

"What did this child ever do to hurt you?" another woman implored.

"I want to talk to them," I said suddenly. "I want to set them straight."

"Don't pay them any mind, Feebs. If you reply to them, they might realize who you are."

"But they're calling me out of my name."

"I know they are. I know they are."

"They're not being very Christian, are they?"

"No, and that's the irony of it all. We're at the door now. You can look up." I glanced up as Char pulled the door open and held it for me. I trudged through and took off my sunglasses, but I didn't take down my hood until I was safe inside. I signed in with a receptionist, who told me to sit down and wait a while. Char took the seat next to me and tried to find some reading material for us amongst the piles of _Cosmopolitan_sand _Newsweek_s from the year 2004.

"Is there anything worth perusing over there?" I asked after at least 5 minutes. I was starting to get antsy.

"Well, I know you hate _Cosmopolitan_ and everything it stands for, and you read _Time_, not _Newsweek_, and you appreciate issues that _don't_ predate the president's second term, so no, not really."

"Ain't that a b."

"That's my phrase."

"It's mine now."

"No way! I copyrighted it!"

"Did you, now?"

"Nah, too much money."

"So I can use it under fair use."

"Maybe it's Creative Commons."

"Pardon me, are we arguing about Creative Commons and fair use?"

"I think we are."

"I can't believe what a bunch of _nerds_ we are."

As I lamented on how nerdy we were using a phrase lifted from Office Space (I'm so nerdy), the door opened again. Instinctively, Char and I looked up and saw Robbie come in.

"Sorry I'm late. I had to verbally kick the asses of those bigots out there. They were getting to me with their stupid little slogans."

"You did that for me?" I asked, astonished.

"Aw, how sweet," Char added.

"Thanks for coming," I said bashfully.

"You know they probably won't let you in the actual operation room," Char pointed out. "Y'know, to keep your poor little eyes away from the squicky-ness of it all."

"Charlotte, you seem to forget that I've seen your sister naked before." Both of us blushed deep crimson. "Besides, I need to be here for her. I can handle a little squicky-ness, as you so eloquently called it."

"Fine. But they won't let you into the holding area." Right as Char said that, I was called up by a nurse and led to a holding area, a small, windowless room where I was given an oh-so-flattering hospital gown and told to change. Char was allowed in with me and she stood in the corner, averting her eyes while I changed.

"Hey, Char, how come you seem to know so much about all of this?" I asked, smoothing my hair down after donning the horrible gown.

"Older sister knowledge," Char hurriedly replied.

"I call bullshit. You're hiding something."

"Damn, got me." Char turned to look at me. "Well, when I was at SCAD, I had this guy I was dating. I think his name was Marcus. I can't even remember now. One night, Marcus and I got horribly drunk—I deeply regret that part of my life—and we had sex. He forgot his condom that night and used the ever-popular 'pulling out really quickly' method of contraception, which is a terrible idea and usually fails. It failed for me. Marcus dumped me after I told him I missed my period and I realized I was pretty much alone. I found myself, basically, in your shoes. I was too young to keep it and it would just remind me of that dick Marcus, so I went down to Planned Parenthood and had exactly the same procedure as you."

"I had no idea." I felt bad because Char had to go through this, but at the same time, I felt like we had some solidarity.

"That's because I didn't tell you. I felt ashamed to. I wanted to just lock that bit of my life away and never look at it again. But being in rehab and AA has taught me that we can't just do that to the bad parts of our lives. We have to reflect on them sometimes to see how they've shaped us and to see if there are any lessons we can learn. I've learned to always make sure I've got a condom on me, just in case the guy doesn't. By the way, you should probably do that, too."

"I'll try."

"Good. Let me tell you, Feebs, this procedure is no fun. You will find iron rods going into places you never thought possible. They will numb you up in a very sensitive area. Then, you get to feel the suction. You may have it a little easier because of your powers and because you have two people here to support you. I was completely alone when I had mine and it sucked. I don't want you to have to feel the way I did. That's one of the primary duties of the older sister." Char patted my shoulder. "Guess we gotta go in now and get this over with. I don't care if you squeeze my hand so tight that it turns purple, Feebs."

"Thanks," I said, following Char out of the holding room. "Thanks for everything."


	24. All At Once

24: All At Once

Note: I can't remember if I ever gave Jessica's mom a name or not. If I did and I get it wrong in this chapter…um…my bad?

It took about three months after her death for everything to come together, but I know Jessica's funeral provided a lot of closure, especially for her mother. She was laid to rest in this gorgeous old cemetery hiding behind a Roly Poly near Downtown Decatur. The place was almost like a secret, and all the stones from the 19th and even the 18th century were interesting to look at. Back in my younger teen years, I was more of a "goth/punk" girl (I could never decide on one, so I dabbled in both) who loved hanging out in graveyards. I don't do that anymore, but as I wandered through the rows after Jessica's ceremony, bits of my past came back to me.

I was sitting on an old bench, staring at the headstone for some person named Samuel Harp who was born in 1895 and died in 1932, when someone came up behind me and touched me on the shoulder. You could say that I'm a little sensitive towards people doing that because it reminds me of how I was abducted. I let out a shriek and jumped about three feet in the air, and then I turned around to see who had committed this terrible act so I could kick their ass. I don't care if I'm in a graveyard.

Well, except for the fact that when I turned around, I was looking into the puffy, swollen red eyes of Jessica's mother, Karen. I can't possibly kick her ass, no matter where we are. I'd be no better than someone who kicks puppies for a living if I did.

"Hi, Ms. Gray," I said.

"Please, call me Karen," Karen replied. "Can I sit down?"

"Sure!" I scooted over and slapped the bench vigorously, allowing Karen to sit down. She smoothed down the hem of her pitch-black dress and seated herself.

"I just wanted to thank you again, Phoebe, for everything you did for Jessica," Karen said.

"I didn't do much," I said bashfully. "I mean, I couldn't even save her. That was my power and I couldn't even use it correctly." I looked down at the ground, trying to stop myself from crying ahead of time, but once again, I failed. At least I succeeded at _something_, though—not wearing mascara that day.

"You did more than you can imagine," Karen replied, patting my shoulder affectionately. "Just being there for her in her time of need…" Karen choked up and I knew she was probably going to break down just like I did. "That meant so much to me." Like a dam being pummeled by a flood, Karen broke down crying. "I just- I just- Thank you." Not knowing what else to do, I hugged her. "I don't know where I'm going to go from here, but I'll always remember how you helped my little angel." A lot of parents affectionately refer to their very-much-alive children as little angels. Unfortunately for Karen, her description of Jessica was quite accurate.

"Ms. Gray," I said, accidentally lapsing back into the overly-polite form of address. "Um, sorry, I mean Karen." I looked down at the lap of my own pitch-black dress as I tried to figure out what to say. "Did I tell you that I know who killed Jessica?"

"I don't think you mentioned it before."

"Well, I do. Or I did. After he told me, I kind of shot him to death, so they never really put him through the justice system." I shrugged. "His name was Christian. I don't remember his last name, though I'm sure someone discovered it after investigation. So, sorry that her killer was never brought to justice."

"Can I be frank with you?" Karen asked. I thought of saying 'As long as I can still be Shirley', but decided against it because Karen was being serious. "You did more justice than the justice system could."

"What do you mean?"

"Consider this. What if this Christian guy got off with a few years in prison or even life in prison? He would still be alive, right? And Jessica would still be dead, right?"

"Right…" I think I'm getting the gist of what Karen's saying.

"Well, now he's dead, we don't have to contend with the inefficiency of the justice system, and I don't have to think about the possibility that the 'man' who killed my daughter may be allowed to live, even if only in a small room with few amenities." Karen smiled wanly. "So, honestly, I think you did the right thing. It doesn't seem right, but to a mother's broken heart, it sure feels right."

We sat quietly for a minute or so after that. I'll probably never know the depths of Karen's suffering—nor do I want to know the depths—but I like to think that I helped her feel a little bit better in a time of need. I also got a nice bouquet for Jessica's grave that Mom helped me pick out. On the way back home, I couldn't help but imagine life without Mom. I know it will happen eventually unless Mom lives so long that I die first, but I'm an adult now, whereas Jessica was still basically a toddler. I think. I don't know much about the age divisions of young kids. Anyway, that was the closest I came to fathoming Karen's grief and I could only do that by reversing the roles of the dead and the still-living. I suck.

---

Although I'll obviously never forget Jessica (I mean, a symbol of her _is_ tattooed on my arm, after all), I soon found two big events that would at least occupy the front burner of my mind, therefore relegating Jessica thoughts to the back. Those big events were spring break and senior prom, the final hurrahs of high school (at least according to the movies), and I felt like I needed to make them important. I mean, I won't get chances like these again. Now that I look back on it, I realize that April 2007 was one hell of a busy month. I don't know how I survived it. I guess I did with a little help from my friends.

At the end of March, Robbie called me one day with pretty sweet news. One of the partners at his law firm was offering up the use of a pretty swanky condo in Destin for use during spring break, free of charge. The place had three big bedrooms, two big bathrooms, a great view of the beach, and an excellent top-floor-of-the-building position. I, of course, agreed to go and recruited Angie to come along so that all 3 bedrooms could be full. Though Mom was a little leery at first of letting me go, she eventually changed her mind after realizing that I'm not the kind of girl who does a lot of crazy drunken partying at Spring Break. Hell, I'm not the kind of girl who does any of that. I was cleared for takeoff.

We all piled into Robbie's car, as it was bigger and could hold more cargo when compared to mine, and set off for Destin, which is approximately 7 hours away from Atlanta by car and involves dipping into Alabama. The crazy part of Alabama, I might add—although I don't know of any part that isn't crazy. We blazed by highway exits leading to towns with one traffic light, towns where having a Movie Gallery store was a big deal, and I imagine that the incredibly Democratic stickers on Robbie's bumper weren't very amusing to drivers behind us. But I didn't care.

The soundtrack for our trip was provided courtesy of our iPods. Each hour, I switched iPods to keep the music fresh. I also toyed with the idea of driving, but I quickly abandoned that when I realized I have no idea how to drive a stick, so I kept myself in the position of map reader and DJ while Angie stretched out in the back and went to sleep, snoozing through parts of Alabama.

"I think this is going to be really fun. Tell the guy at the firm thanks for letting us borrow his place. He didn't have to do that," I said to Robbie when I verified that Angie was sleeping.

"Oh, he knows that. I only told him twelve million times. Krapowski's a cool guy. I think he's fast-tracking me to partnership in the firm."

"That's great news! That calls for some John Mayer." I put on "Waiting on the World to Change" and gazed out the window as Alabama passed by. "Y'know, since Angie's staying with us and I don't know how thick the walls are in this place, um, wow, this is gonna sound weird, but, uh, I don't think we should…you know…"

"I think I know what you're saying. That's OK. I don't want to damage Angie's spirit to the point that she'll have to spend hundreds on therapy. 'Yeah, I heard my best friend getting it on when we were eighteen and I've never been the same since.'"

"Chill out!" I cried, guffawing wildly. "Well, I guess that's what I'm thinking."

"Don't worry, Phoebe. I'm OK with that."

"How is that possible? I mean, you're a guy. Isn't that all you care about?"

"Contrary to popular belief, no, Phoebe, guys do not care only about sex."

"Wow, I came in at the wrong time," a groggy Angie said from the backseat. "I have a habit of doing that."

"Go back to sleep, Angie. I'll wake you when the scenery gets a little more interesting."

Unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to do that because soon enough, I succumbed to the monotony of a long car trip and fell asleep, my neck curving towards my shoulder, mouth open just enough to allow drool to come out. Fantastic. Now I'm going to be drooling like an idiot in front of Robbie. I bet he won't find that very attractive.

---

"Wake up, sleepyheads," I heard Robbie say as he shook me gently. When I woke up, I struggled to right my neck and make it not hurt so much again. Then, I tried to dry out the little puddle of drool on my shoulder. DAMMIT! In the backseat, Angie woke up and stretched rather loudly. Robbie popped the trunk and unlocked the doors, which allowed us a chance to check out our temporary digs.

They were _fantastic_.

We were staying in this high-rise building with a weird name like Tradewinds or Hidden Dunes, the kind that only beachside accommodations get. On the outside, it looked nondescript, just a tall gray building with a big parking lot in front, but once we ambled out of the car, carrying our carry-on luggage (we'd get the bigger bags out later), and hopped onto the elevator, I knew this would be good.

"You have to input a code to get up to the penthouse levels," Robbie told us.

"You're kidding!" Angie gasped.

"That's to keep the riffraff out. Let's see…what's that code again…" Robbie pressed the 20 button, the highest one on the keypad, and it lit up, but the elevator showed no obvious signs of going up. Angie and I watched carefully as Robbie jabbed the 4, 8, and 2 buttons in succession. The elevator chimed, the doors closed, and we ascended to the top of the building. I felt more like I was on the top of the world. I'm not used to luxury like this.

The elevator opened up on a hallway containing nothing but a distant fire exit and the door to our room, number 2001. Angie looked at me and grinned excitedly as Robbie found the key and opened the door. Pretending to be celebrities, Angie and I walked in together, immediately hustled across the living room to a large screen door, pulled it open, and rushed outside to gaze at the Gulf. The emerald green waters were fronted by the whitest sand I've ever seen in my life. The beach was moderately crowded with a mix of swimmers, surfers (though I'm not sure the calm waters of the Gulf are good for swimming), and kids looking for shells.

"Look at the pools!" Angie cried, pointing to a pool shaped like a kidney and a much bigger, rectangular one featuring a swirling blue water slide.

"Dude! Water slide!" I shouted, because who doesn't like water slides?

"And a hot tub!" Angie added.

"Man, forget hot tubs," I said dismissively. "It's all about the water slide."

"Wanna go back downstairs, get our stuff, and go to the water slide?" Angie asked, eyes widening with anticipation.

"Sure! But first, let's go claim our rooms." I let Angie go inside first and slid the door shut behind her. We hustled past the living room, down a small corridor past one of the bathrooms (which was, I must note, bigger than the bathrooms at my house), and stopped in front of the master bedroom. To the right were the other two bedrooms. One of the doors was closed, but I really wanted to see inside the room so I could decide which one to call, so I tried the knob. Finding it unlocked, I opened the door and, well, I was very surprised, to say the least.

Instead of finding an empty guest room decorated in the same bland yet comforting way as its twin, I found a _very_ occupied guest room. In fact, sprawled out on the full-sized bed were two people: a young man with rumpled chocolate brown hair and a darkly tanned young woman with long blonde hair.

"Oh dear," Angie said, eyes widening for a completely different reason as she realized both these people were naked.

"ROBBIE! WHO THE HELL ARE THESE PEOPLE?!" I screamed at a volume that I honestly didn't know I could sustain. My scream, of course, woke both of them up.

"Who the hell are you?" the guy asked Angie and me.

"I'd like to know the same thing," I said, crossing my arms. The girl sat up, gasped, and covered herself with a bed sheet.

"What is it?" Robbie asked, rushing over to my side.

"Them," I said sternly, pointing to the two people.

"Oh God," Robbie said with a good deal of exasperation. He must know these two. "Steve, didn't your dad tell you to go home like three days ago?"

"Maybe," the guy replied. So his name is Steve.

"Then why aren't you in New Haven again?" Robbie asked, crossing his arms.

"Why go back to boring old Connecticut when you can stay here in Florida with a very foxy lady?" Steve asked, winking and nudging the blonde. "Right, Hope?"

"My name's Faith," the blonde said coldly.

"Ooooh! Ice burn!" Angie howled in amusement.

"Steve, get out," Robbie commanded.

"Why should I? It's my condo."

"No, it's not. You live in the dorms at Yale University. This is your father's condo and he's letting us use it for the week because he's a nice person. Now, I'm sure you're missing class because this is spring break for high schools and colleges always have earlier breaks. I'm not sure your father would like to hear that his dear son is missing class to get wasted in Florida and sleep with a woman whose name he can't even remember. So, why don't you just send dear little Faith on her way, pack your bags, jump in your Bentley and go on back to Connecticut."

"Man, Robbie is totally ice burning him," Angie noted. I nodded in amazement. I've never heard Robbie argue like that before. No wonder that one partner guy thinks he'd make a great lawyer.

"You should go," Faith said sternly. She was probably still smarting from all the crap that had happened to her since she woke up, especially the wrong name thing. I hate when that happens to me, so I can sympathize with her.

"Fine," Steve said with a huge sigh. "But you hoes have to look away. I'm in my birthday suit." He indicated us as the hoes.

"Don't you worry. I'd rather stab myself in the eyes with a rusty fork than see you naked," I said, bristling from the hoes comment. "Come on, Angie, let's go into the other guest room and look at the Gulf." I led her into the other room, but when I heard Robbie start to talk to Steve again, I couldn't help but listen.

"Have you lost your mind, Steve? First, you ditch class to come down to Florida and engage in nothing but debauchery. Second, you sleep with a woman and don't have the common decency to remember her name. Third, you made the terrible mistake of calling my girlfriend and her best friend hoes. Now, if you weren't David Krapowski's son, I would throw your worthless ass out the window. But unfortunately, you are his son, and I want to be on David's good side. So you get off on a technicality. Get your sorry ass out of here."

Angie and I turned away from the Gulf and watched as Steve, fully dressed and carrying a duffel bag, marched down the hallway like he was marching to his own grave. A moment later, Faith, also fully dressed, followed. I heard a door creaking open and then a satisfying slap (most likely delivered by Faith), followed by both of them leaving.

"Um," Angie said after a bit of silence. "Wanna go down to the water slide now?"

"Of course!" I said cheerfully.

---

After going down to the water slide for a while, we made a run to the nearest supermarket and bought some food so we wouldn't have to rely on the generally overpriced restaurants for our sustenance. While we were there, Angie and I saw an ad for some place called Big Kahuna's. It wasn't very good at explaining exactly what Big Kahuna's _was_, though, so when we got back to the condo, I took out my laptop and investigated it.

Yes, I brought my laptop with me. You never know when you may need it! Anyway, after doing a bit of Googling, I discovered that Big Kahuna's was part water park and part go-kart/mini golf course. Once I knew this, I was absolutely sure that we had to go there.

I don't care if many of my classmates are choosing to spend their spring break getting so drunk/high that they can't think straight and doing the same kind of stuff that Steve was doing. I wanted to have fun going down every single water slide at that park, doing a round of mini golf, and seeing if my go-kart driving skills had improved since the last time I got behind the wheel of one (when I was 9, I think). Maybe this was "weird". Maybe this was "different". Maybe that's how I've always been and always will be. Maybe I'm proud of that.


	25. The Heist

Chapter 25: The Heist

Fun fact: The house described in this chapter does actually exist. You can see it here if you want to: $3,495,000.

You know that feeling you get after coming back from a vacation? The one where you feel like your hometown is nothing but a drag and you really, really want to go back to vacation again? Yeah, I had a terrible case of that after we got back home. My camera was chock-full of pictures, most of them candid shots taken on the beach, although I did have some shots from the condo, Big Kahuna's, and the extremely long car ride back home that was slowed down by a terrible rainstorm around Hartsfield Airport. As they were uploaded onto my computer, I really just wanted to leave Atlanta and go back there again.

Soon after, though, and just before prom, Angie finally got a car! She said that it was an early graduation present. It's a Volvo station wagon with tons of room in the trunk, which is good considering that she's going to take the car to college…in Washington, DC. Anyway, on her inaugural drive, she decided to come down to The Freak Show and visit me on the job.

Feli was baking a big velvet cake and I was drawing a heart in the foam crown of a latte when Lauren admitted Angie to the store.

"Feebs! I drove over here!" Angie chirped when she came inside.

"In the Mazda?" I asked, not looking up from my latte art. Angie's mom drives a Mazda sedan. In fact, Angie learned how to drive in it.

"No! In my Volvo! I just got it today!" We shared a squeal and I hurriedly finished drawing, rushing over to her.

"Let me take a peek at it," I commanded. Angie nodded, cracked open the door, and I angled my head to peek at the shiny silver Volvo parked out front. "Oooh! Shiny!"

"I washed and waxed it," Angie explained proudly. "I'm so happy! Now I can go to college!"

"Here, why don't you get something to celebrate?" I suggested, winking.

"I think I will." Angie closed the door and came back inside, pondering our menu while I delivered the heart-topped latte to a smiling customer.

"Actually, I think I'll have some of that." Angie pointed to the red velvet cake, which Feli was decorating with buttercream frosting, slivers of white chocolate, and a thin layer of raspberry jam. "What is it? It looks amazing."

"It's red velvet cake," I answered. "Feli's a great pastry chef."

"I should go to Le Cordon Bleu," Feli muttered as she spread the jam over the cake's surface. "Do you want a slice?" she asked Angie, who nodded vigorously.

"I was on that forum you go to," Angie told me as I rang up her order. "Someone posted a really, really long post in Spanish and everyone was crying for a translation, so I typed one up."

"Cool! What did it say? That'll be $3.15, by the way."

"Well, this maid who works for some rich guy in Alpharetta was ranting about how her employer treats her badly because she's gifted. She can levitate stuff like Char can and uses that ability to clean faster." Angie took out her wallet and counted out four dollars. When I gave her change, she dropped it all into my Instant Karma jar, which was decorated with a drawing of Buddha. Feli served her the cake on a plain white IKEA plate.

"Go on," I said as Angie leaned up against the counter to eat her cake.

"Mmm, it gets juicier. Turns out her employer, who is mad rich, like I said before, has a working prototype of _the vaccine_ in his basement. He's using it as a threat to Rosalinda and forcing her not to use her power when cleaning his giant mansion. She's fixing to quit in protest and really wants to destroy that prototype, but knows she can't get past all the security measures alone."

"Man, that sucks," I said.

"Tell me about it. But after I posted the translation, this person called Electrochick said that her power has something to do with interrupting electricity or something like that. She wants to help. Then I just happened to mention Robbie's power and…"

"And what?"

"And Rosalinda really wants him to come along. Um, she and Electrochick are going to come down here to talk strategy."

"OK, I guess. Wait, can I come too?"

"Yeah, that would be a good idea. What if someone gets hurt and needs healing?"

"Can I butt in?" Lauren asked politely. "I can do surveillance. Y'know, in case the employer sees us or something. And Dylan, though he's currently being a…" Lauren said something in French that made Angie gasp in shock. "He can provide a quick escape, should we need one."

"What'd she say?" I asked Angie expectantly.

"She called him a dickhead. And he's her brother!"

"I know, Angie. Remember? I used to like him."

"Anyway, there's a basement we can meet in. It's the storage area for the store and it's nothing to write home about, but it's more secluded. We can meet down there," Lauren offered.

"Rosalinda said she could come around 10. I think Electrochick, whoever she is, can come around the same time," Angie said. "Mm, this cake is awesome."

"Thanks!" Feli said sweetly.

"I think we can close a little earlier tonight to accommodate this," Lauren said, glancing at her surveillance monitors.

---

My shift ended at 6, so I went home, ate dinner, checked my e-mail, and called Robbie, who agreed to meet up with me at The Freak Show. Angie insisted on picking me up this time (to pay me back for all the times I've picked her up, she said) and drove us over to The Freak Show, where a young Asian woman stood smoking by her car. Lauren was showing the last customers to the door, bidding them a good night, and starting the shutdown procedures.

Angie and I walked past the smoker and stepped inside. While Lauren worked busily, a woman who closely resembled Salma Hayek was sipping a macchiato and reading _People en Español._

"Hi, Rosalinda," Angie said in Spanish. Rosalinda responded by glancing up, smiling, and waving. I recognized what she said as a greeting and smiled back.

"Phoebe, can you change the sign from Open to Closed, please?" Lauren asked. She looked harried. I nodded and flipped the sign around. A moment later, the door opened and the Asian woman came inside.

"Are you Electrochick?" Angie asked.

"In the flesh," she replied. "But call me Asuka." Asuka had her hair in dreadlocks and rings of black around her eyes. Pretty much everything on her face was pierced—she even had a Monroe. She was wearing a black halter top, a black and white plaid miniskirt, and black combat boots.

"Hi, Asuka. I'm Phoebe. It's nice to meet you," I said, setting off a chain of introductions in two languages that was interrupted by Robbie's fashionably late arrival. As soon as he came in, I noticed Asuka eating him alive with her eyes. While I don't deny that he is incredibly attractive, he's mine. I needed to assert this fact, so I performed a fairly obnoxious display of affection, culminating in a long hug where I whispered to him that Asuka was checking him out.

Once all of us were there—Lauren explained that Dylan couldn't show up because of "some damned thing"—we all went down a flight of creaky stairs to the basement, which was indeed a storage area filled with all sorts of mysterious cardboard boxes. It smelled musty and there was nowhere to sit, so we all leaned up against the cold cement walls. Lauren took copious notes while Rosalinda, aided by Angie, described the house and its security features.

"The house is in the Country Club of the South," Angie explained. "So, it's a gated community with extremely limited access. You have to know who you're coming in to visit."

"I can fix that," Asuka said in a husky, deep voice. "Watch this." She looked up towards the feeble lights that lit the room, snapped her fingers, and they flickered out, blanketing the room in darkness. That scared me and I tensed up as Asuka snapped again, making the lights come back on. "That's basically my power, except I can control what it affects and the range of things it affects."

"Cool," Lauren said breathily.

"The house also has its own system of cameras and alarms. There are six—no, sorry, eight—cameras and one alarm. Asuka, I assume you can take care of those," Angie said.

"Can and will," Asuka said, nodding.

"Then you have to go down to the basement, find the prototype, tamper with its own little alarm, take it out, destroy it, and get the hell out of Dodge. Her employer, Mr. Bullard, usually just stays at home all day when he's not at work, but he's going to go play golf next Saturday and that would be a good time to do this thing." As Angie said this, I grimaced.

"Ugh, that's prom," I pointed out. Angie explained what I said to Rosalinda, who replied to her.

"Rosalinda says not to worry, that you'll be back in time to become a princess for the prom," Angie said. "She guarantees it."

"Well, I'll do it. I mean, if this prototype is destroyed, then it will become much harder for people to make other copies of this vaccine, right?" I asked. "As long as I make it back in time to get prepared for prom." I have to have some priorities.

---

Listen: This is how the heist of _the vaccine_'s prototype on April 21, 2007 in the city of Alpharetta went down. All of us met up at The Freak Show and piled into the SUV belonging to Lauren and Dylan's mysterious maman. It was an Explorer or Excursion or some damned thing, one of those gas-guzzlers that seats 7 or 8 (which is pretty much its city MPG, I might add). Lauren offered to drive and put Dylan in the front seat with her. Asuka and Rosalinda took the second row while Robbie, Angie and I piled into the very back row.

"Full disclosure," Dylan warned us. "Lauren drives fast on the highway." I shrugged this news off at first—everyone drives faster than the recommended speed limit of 55 on the highways, especially when you're on 285—but when Lauren merged onto 85 bound for 400, I swear that the car was doing about 90 or 100 MPH. I was too nervous about all of this to think very well, so I simply sat and gazed out the window as the sights of downtown Atlanta were replaced with subdivision after subdivision. Once we got onto 400 (and had to cough up the 50-cent toll to do so), this change was the most pronounced.

Nothing really compares to the houses at Country Club of the South, though. Lots of athletes and entertainers live here. I think Whitney Houston has a house here. Anyway, you can see it coming up from a while away. Suddenly, you see nothing but mansion-size houses, surrounded by beautifully manicured green grass and a black fence that looks fairly sharp and foreboding. It's crazy.

Lauren drove up to one of the two access gates, where two men sat in a tiny box and watched TV. They looked up when we drove up and one held out his hand, commanding us to stop.

"Who are you visiting?" he asked us. He had on big aviator sunglasses and was chewing gum.

"Um…" Lauren looked back at Rosalinda. "Who are we here to see?" Angie translated the question and Rosalinda offered up 'Señor Bullard' as an answer. "Mr. Bullard?"

"Oh, Mr. Bullard? Okay." The man commanded his partner to open the gates for us and we drove right in.

"Well, that was easy," I commented.

"Like taking candy from a baby," Asuka muttered.

Aided by directions from Rosalinda, Lauren successfully found Mr. Bullard's house, a huge stately white mansion with two winding staircases in the front, and stationed the SUV on the curb.

"Rosalinda says she has a key to the house," Angie told us as Rosalinda took out a silver key and waved it in the air.

"I think it will look really suspicious for all of us to go inside while Mr. Bullard's away," Dylan pointed out.

"No problem!" I exclaimed. "That's where Robbie comes in." I walked over to him and took his hand. "As long as we're all holding hands when we go in, or even just touching one another, like on the shoulder or whatever, we should all be invisible. Robbie, demonstrate your power for everyone." He nodded and I suddenly felt cold chills all up and down my spine. I didn't know that this was a side effect of invisibility, but there it was. Some of the others gasped in awe. "Join up!"

I let Rosalinda get in front, but I made sure to keep Robbie's other hand because Asuka was eyeing him again. Does she just not _get_ that he's mine or something? Angie took my free hand, Lauren took hers, Dylan took hers, and Asuka brought up the rear. Together, we walked up one of the winding staircases—I noted the presence of a pretty female statue pouring water into a little pond—and to the grand front doors. Rosalinda turned the key and opened the door just enough for us to get in. We all hurried inside because an open door and nothing going in sure looks suspicious, then slammed the door right as a shrill alarm began to shriek.

"Shit!" Asuka shouted. She frowned and snapped her fingers, which stopped the shrieking. We all dropped hands and became visible again.

"Whoa, marble floors," Angie noted.

"Look at all this stuff!" Lauren exclaimed bitterly.

"These folks probably have more money than I'll ever see in my life," I grumbled.

Rosalinda began to speak again.

"Rosalinda says to follow her to the basement. She is also worried about when or if Asuka's power will stop working. Does it ever lose effectiveness, Asuka?" Angie asked.

"No, it shouldn't," Asuka replied with a shrug. "I'd be surprised if it did."

"We all would," Dylan said. "Because the Alpharetta Police would be on us like _that_." He snapped. Some of us nodded.

"Man, I've had enough interaction with the police for a lifetime," I said. "So let's get this thing over with, get out of here, and get back home. I have to get ready for prom."

"Me too," Angie said.

"Me three," Dylan said.

"Me four?" Robbie asked. "That sounds weird."

Rosalinda led us through the most amazing kitchen ever and to an unassuming wooden door. It creaked open and led us down a flight of surprisingly un-creaky stairs to a fantastic-looking finished basement. Unfortunately, it reminded me of the basement I was held captive in and I suddenly felt very, very tense and scared. I think I was shaking as I descended the stairs.

"Is something wrong, Feebs?" Angie asked me.

"Angie, this basement reminds me of the one I was held in," I said shakily. "Let's do this quick and get the hell out of here."

"Okay," Angie said softly.

"Aquí es," Rosalinda said. I didn't need that translated for me. In front of us stood a small glass case, much like the ones you see in jewelry stores, except that instead of holding necklaces, earrings, and rings, it held a single silver syringe, a tiny unmarked bottle of some liquid, and a small unlabeled booklet that I assume detailed how to make this particular substance. No keyhole or any other obvious way to open this case was anywhere to be found.

"How do we open this thing?" Asuka asked.

"Does Rosalinda have a key?" Lauren asked. Angie relayed the question to Rosalinda, who gravely shook her head. "Does she know of any way to open this thing?" Lauren asked, sounding slightly annoyed. Rosalinda shook her head again.

"How do we open this thing?" Asuka asked again. We all stood around and pondered what to do before I realized that I could open it.

"I can do it," I declared.

"How?" Dylan asked.

"Watch." I balled my right hand into a fist, shot off a quick prayer, and punched the glass case with all my might. It caved in behind the force of my fist, although a few good-sized shards managed to get in my hand and scrape it up nicely. I grasped the syringe, bottle, and booklet with my hand, which was starting to bleed, and pulled them out.

"Oh my God!" Angie cried out. "Look at your hand!"

"I can heal it," I said nonchalantly. "What should we do about all this crap? Answer quickly. I'm starting to feel a little faint."

"I think we should pour the serum down the drain, break the syringe, and set the booklet on fire," Angie recommended. "Does that sound like a good idea to y'all?" Everyone nodded their general agreement. I started feeling dizzy after I looked at my hand and saw all the blood spurting out.

"Um, guys?" I asked. "Can I sit down for a minute?" After I posed this question, I became tired all of a sudden and then everything started fading out, like my vision was just a scene in a movie and the scene was changing.

---

I woke up in the very back row of the SUV as we headed back towards Atlanta. A towel was wrapped around my hand to stop the bleeding and I was supported by Robbie and Angie's laps—one for the head and one for the feet. As soon as I woke up, I realized what was going on and sat up suddenly, alarming both of the folks who were supporting me.

"Did everything go all right?" I asked.

"Everything is fine," Robbie said, touching my hair. "Except for your hand, of course."

"You passed out before you could heal it," Angie explained. "Take off the towel and see how bad it is. I hope you can heal it."

"I know I can," I said as I unraveled the towel. Shards of glass jutted out from my flesh at odd angles, but my hand was cleansed of all blood. It was much paler than my other hand, though. Nodding my head, I began to take out the shards and pile them up on the towel as if they were merely decorative rhinestones or stickers on my hand. When the glass was gone, I was left with gaping wounds that I healed immediately. My hand returned to normal. "All better."

"You scared the shit out of us!" Angie shouted after I healed myself. "Fainting like that—I was really freaked out!"

"I'm sorry, Angie. At least I got the case open, right?"

"Right. We had to clean it all off, though, to get your blood off. We ended up destroying all the glass, too, because we realized that our fingerprints were all up on it. But we poured that crap down the sink, broke the syringe, and we're going to set the booklet on fire back at The Freak Show because it won't arouse suspicion in the kind of folks who live at the Country Club of the South," Angie explained with a smile.

"Yeah, people in Cabbagetown tend to care less about that sort of thing," Lauren observed. "In fact, some people might think we're making a bonfire and maybe they'll want to join in."

"But we're going home," Angie said. "We'll stay to watch the fire start, but as stated before, four of the people in this car have to go home and get all pretty."

"Even the guys?" I asked.

"Maybe," Angie replied, stifling a giggle.

We rode off towards 400, away from the bland mauve-ness of the suburbs and back into the smoky, spicy flavor of Atlanta proper, drunk off the happiness of having destroyed this prototype and the heady feeling that we actually managed to help people out in the process.


End file.
